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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642995">Made Friends with the Devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Blue/pseuds/Jay_Blue'>Jay_Blue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Red Robin (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, I guess? like straight murder, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, vigilante shit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Blue/pseuds/Jay_Blue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is sixteen when Kon dies, and his dad dies, and Steph dies. He is sixteen when the Red Hood comes back from the dead, fury and blood in his every step. He is sixteen when he realizes that maybe all that red isn’t such a bad thing, after all. </p><p>//</p><p>I made friends with the devil / I don't want to die alone</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tim Drake/Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>456</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Made Friends with the Devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim knows something’s up the second that Batman takes off his mask and looks at him with this guarded, almost guilty expression on his face, like he’s not sure what to say. He becomes Bruce in that second, turns off the vigilante persona and looks at Tim. It’s the same expression he’d had when he’d told him that Steph was dead. “The Red Hood is back in Gotham.”</p><p>The normal reaction to that should be a gasp, or a bolt of fear straight to the heart, or ice water flooding his veins. Tim doesn’t do any of these things. Tim is a trust fund baby who’s been raised to hide his true feelings behind an empty smile, a boy who’s been alone more than he’s been around other people, who has been training with Batman for two years and acts like it. He doesn’t fall apart. He is invincible.</p><p>He stands taller, his spine a straight line like he’s reinforced it with steel, and looks Bruce in the eye, doesn’t stutter when he says, “For how long?”</p><p>If Bruce is impressed at his complete lack of emotional response, it doesn’t show. Similarly, Tim has no way of knowing if he’s actually disappointed, because it isn’t <em>normal</em>, his coping mechanisms. He knows that pretty well by now.</p><p>“Not sure. The Commissioner dropped a few hints tonight, wanting to know if the new mask was one of mine.”</p><p>“And you reassured him that Red Hood <em>isn’t</em>,” Tim states, careful eyes watching for any reaction from the older man.</p><p>Bruce meets his eyes, and there’s a flicker of something that Tim can’t quite catch before it’s gone. “He hasn’t done anything drastic, as of yet. It appears as though he’s staking out his territory, focusing in on Crime Alley, a little bit in the Bowery. His old neighborhood, from when he was growing up.”</p><p> “How nostalgic,” Tim says dryly, and earns himself a disapproving look. He doesn’t apologize. He’s never claimed to be nice.</p><p>“No outright deaths so far,” Bruce continues. “Plenty of fights. Two gangsters are in comas, a fair amount more are going to be in the hospital for awhile longer.”</p><p>Tim is silent for a moment, his brain processing the information he’s been given, trying to find the pieces that are most important, the pieces that Bruce wants him to pick up on. “Seems to me like he’s planning to stay awhile,” he finally says, wetting his lips as his mouth suddenly goes dry. “Ah.”</p><p>He’s gotten to the heart of the problem, the reason Bruce is telling him this; he can tell by the way Bruce’s shoulders go tight, his mouth a thin line. “He was not particularly hospitable the last time he crossed paths with you.”</p><p>Tim almost snorts out loud. As it is, he can barely slam down the rising wave of bitterness and anger that’s settled in his chest. He resists the urge to run his finger along the thin white scar that’s hidden beneath his re-designed, <em>higher</em> neckline. He doesn’t, because he knows that a reaction like that would get him benched in a heartbeat. “Well, he hasn’t actually succeeded in any of his attempts to murder me,” he says in a light voice, managing to keep it from sounding too canned. <em>So far</em>. “And I definitely think there was improvement between the first time when he put a knife to my throat and the second time when he only kicked my ass in the Titans Tower. So I think we’re progressing.” So he’s a bit sarcastic. Sue him.</p><p>“Tim.”</p><p>“Don’t take me out,” Tim blurts, eyes dark and slightly worried. Bruce has only just let him start patrolling on my own again, and he doesn’t want to go back to sitting in the Cave all the time. It’s <em>boring</em>. “I can handle the Red Hood.”</p><p>He doesn’t say his name; saying it makes it real, turns him into a real person, turns him into the twisted version of the boy that Tim watched with wide, star struck eyes through the lens of a camera, wearing the costume that’s Tim’s now. Saying <em>Jason Todd</em> aloud makes the whole situation so much worse.</p><p>He’s pretty confident that Bruce feels the same way, watching this parody of his adopted son shoot and kill his way through Gotham, carving out a bloody path that Bruce had never meant for him.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s watching a scene unfold in the alley below him, trying to decide if the couple arguing drunkenly outside of a bar are going to get into a physical fight or just yell at each other until they decide to fuck it out instead, when he hears the distinctive sound of a gun cocking.</p><p>Tim acts on reflex, his hand twitching to his belt to retrieve a fistful of knives.</p><p>(<em>“Birdarangs, Tim, they’re called birdarangs,” Dick chides him. </em></p><p><em>Tim rolls his eyes. “They’re knives, Dick.”</em>).</p><p>He spins without thinking, automatically darting several feet to the side to avoid the blaze of gunfire that doesn’t come, his arm cocked in the air and ready to release the blades into the air. He doesn’t even have to think about where he wants to aim them; Tim throws knives like he had been born with one clutched between his fingers.</p><p>What he sees makes him freeze, though, and his eyes widen behind his mask, his arm stilling in midair. Because he recognizes the man in front of him, the man who has made his arrival known with the sound of his gun, and it doesn’t bode well for him.</p><p>“Hello, <em>Robin</em>,” the man says, his voice a threat in and of itself, and Tim’s heart sinks into his toes even as his pulse speeds up, because this is it, this is the moment that Bruce has been fearing and Tim has been waiting for:</p><p>The Red Hood has finally come looking for him again.</p><p>Tim’s pretty sure he’s supposed to call this in, supposed to let Batman know as soon as humanly or meta-naturally possible when the Red Hood is anywhere near him, especially since the Red Hood’s suddenly started upping his kill count as whatever plan he’s enacting is apparently coming to fruition.</p><p>Instead, he carefully tucks all but one of his knives away, staring directly at the helmeted head of the man who’s got both of his sizeable guns aimed directly at Tim. He doesn’t move beyond that. His fingers don’t even twitch toward the tracking beacon at his belt, just rap his remaining weapon casually against his thigh. “I thought you operated Uptown,” he says in greeting, eyes appraising the Red Hood carefully.</p><p>The man – (Can he be called a man if he’s only eighteen years old, hardly two years older than Tim? Those broad shoulders say he can, Tim decides) – is wearing the outfit that Tim’s come to recognize as his signature look. Black pants reinforced with Kevlar, probably made out of the same protective material as Tim’s are, armored plates that outline his torso and ridiculously wide chest, a leather jacket <em>for the aesthetic</em>. His thigh holsters are empty, his belt deceptively slim considering how much equipment he probably has packed into it. Tim wonders absently how many weapons the man has hidden all around his body, and decides it’s better not to think about that.</p><p>When the Red Hood speaks, his helmet makes his voice seem slightly mechanized. It’s an odd sound; not canned, but, rather, enhanced. It reminds him of Oracle’s voice scrambler. The sound equipment is low tech enough that Tim can still tell it’s Jason Todd’s voice, but he’s sure that anyone unfamiliar with the man beneath the mask would have enormous difficulty discovering his identity. “Gotham’s open territory, little bird. There are no zoning laws among vigilantes.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, not backing down from the confrontation. “I think there are better words for what you are than <em>vigilante</em>.”</p><p>“You really wanna piss off the guy who’s got two bullets with your name on them aimed right at you?” Red Hood remarks idly.</p><p>“You really wanna kill me with something as impersonal as a gun?” Tim counters, cocking his head like he’s genuinely curious.</p><p>He feels off-kilter, empty, like he’s not fully present in the situation, like he’s not all the way there. It makes him feel weightless, restless and reckless, makes him feel ready to do anything, consequences be damned. He is dangerous.</p><p>It’s something that’s been happening more and more, recently. As a rule, Tim likes things to be under control, likes knowing all the variables and predicting where they’ll fall into place, and he likes being <em>in</em> control. In his world, where everything is in flux and every moment could be his last, the only way to retain that kind of control is to be ruthless, with the people around him, but also with himself, his emotions and actions.</p><p>He knows how important their work is, so he listens intently when Bruce speaks and he throws himself into their cases and he concentrates so hard that it feels like there isn’t anything else in the world. But then he takes off the mask, hangs up the cape, and it’s like his entire reality shifts just three inches to the left, like there’s something just not quite right, something just out of reach that he can’t see, an unseen problem that requires immediate assistance – but he just can’t figure out where to start.</p><p>He knows what trauma is. He knows that his dad just died and that Steph just died, that he’s officially joined the not-so-exclusive club of Robins-with-dead-parents. He knows he doesn’t really have a lot of people to talk to anymore, now that Kon’s dead and he isn’t speaking to what few Titans are still alive. He knows that he hasn’t properly grieved, but he also knows that if he starts now, it will bubble over like a volcano, and he just has too much on his plate to bother with trivial things like healthy coping mechanisms.</p><p>“What makes you think I care enough about you to use something other than a gun?” Red Hood’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. The helmet buzzes slightly when he exhales harshly. The other man sounds oddly amused, though his aim never wavers.</p><p>Tim raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Please. You’ve kicked the shit out of me twice now with your bare hands, I doubt you’d finish me off with something as easy as a bullet.” He sniffs imperiously. “Even if that is how you conduct your… <em>business</em>.”</p><p>He’s used to it, the topic of his own death, is aware of his mortality in a way that Dick never quite got around to understanding. Tim looks at Dick and sees a man who still thinks he’s invincible, talented enough that he’s managed a decade of service under the Batman and on his own, but who, like a child, can’t seem to comprehend the fact that he can, and will, die at any point.</p><p>Batman’s power lies in his ability to look beyond the inevitable, to understand that every passing day is a victory in a war he can’t ultimately win. He doesn’t fear death, but he doesn’t embrace it either.</p><p>Tim’s more like Bruce in this aspect, and in others, though he doesn’t always like to think about their shared bad habits. Tim is painfully aware of the fact that he’s going to die, but, unlike his partner (and new father), he’s expecting his death to arrive a lot sooner than Batman’s. He’s smart and strong and fast, but, statistically, sidekicks always kick the bucket before the hero they assist, and he’s too practical to remain under any illusion that he can do this forever. No, Tim will die tragic and young, and it will be both devastatingly abrupt and whole-heartedly expected.</p><p>“That’s why you’re here, I assume?” Tim prods, when Red Hood makes no effort to continue the conversation. “Business?”</p><p>The other man shrugs, like he can’t be bothered. “Or pleasure, I haven’t decided yet.”</p><p>He drops one of his guns, tucks it securely back into his left thigh holster, but keeps the other trained steady. He uses his now-free hand to tug the helmet of his new namesake loose, shaking out dark hair with the white streak that still catches Tim off guard whenever he sees it – wrong, wrong, wrong – and his raised eyebrows are now evident over the red domino.</p><p>“What are <em>you</em> doing out and about, all alone? I didn’t think the Bat was in the habit of letting his pretty new protégé wander around the city by himself.” There’s a hint of a leer in his voice that Tim wouldn’t have caught with the helmet, in the way his head cocks to the side when he speaks, like he’s examining Tim.</p><p>Tim blinks. <em>That’s new</em>. Most of his past encounters with Jason Todd can be best described as ‘murderously violent,’ and he’d never once gotten a waft of anything that could even remotely be construed as <em>interested</em>. But the Red Hood doesn’t seem quite so angry this time around. He’s mildly annoyed, sure, and he never stops being dangerous, but he doesn’t seem to want to gut his replacement with a rusty fishing hook, so Tim’s willing to continue the conversation, albeit only until he can get out without a knife in his back.</p><p>“Divide and conquer,” Tim says cautiously, eyes never wandering far from Red Hood’s gun. “He needs information for a case, so I’m handling the patrol.”</p><p>He takes careful note of Hood’s reaction, the way his shoulders tighten, the flex of his fingers around the grip of his gun. “Gonna lecture me on the Bat’s military strategies?” he drawls, and he’s obviously irritated again, which is unfair because he’d been the one to bring up Batman in the first place.</p><p>“<em>You</em> came looking for <em>me</em>,” Tim snaps, his hand gripping the flat side of his birdarang tighter, the feel of cool metal grounding him. “I’m nowhere near Crime Alley. If you didn’t think you could handle a simple conversation, then I don’t know why you bothered coming here.” And, no, maybe that isn’t the smartest thing Tim’s ever said, maybe he’s readying himself for a fight before the words have even left his mouth, but he’s tired and cold and he would have been done with his patrol already if Red Hood hadn’t intervened.</p><p>And, at the end of the day, Jason is important to Tim. Dick had been the first Robin, had been the corner piece of the puzzle that Tim had spent his childhood solving, but Jason had been the picture on the box. Jason had been <em>Tim’s</em> Robin. He had spent years crossing rooftops and following Batman and his sons across Gotham, had more pictures of Jason dressed in yellow and red than anything else, had looked at Jason like he was a god in his own right.</p><p>Now, though, Jason is different, he’s the Red Hood, he’s a murderer and a criminal and a drug lord, and Tim can’t quite find it in himself to hate him for it, not the way Bruce can. Bruce looks at Jason and sees failure, sees a man who became everything that Bruce had tried to stop him from being, and wants to either fix him or finish him. Tim looks at Jason, and all he can feel is guilt and shame—because Jason came back from the dead, returned to the man who’d given him a purpose, and came face to face with the reality that he’d been replaced like he’d meant nothing. Tim understands this, and he can’t help but feel responsible, even if he knows it isn’t his fault, just like he can’t help the flutter in his chest every time he remembers Jason from years past. </p><p>“You’re right,” Red Hood says, and his tone puts Tim’s nerves on edge, because that is not the voice of a man who is willing to solve his problems with words. “I <em>did</em> come looking for you.”</p><p>He takes a heavy step forward, and for the first time in their interaction, Tim feels something a lot like fear slithering down on his back. He has to force himself to not back up, because Jason’s a predator with Tim in his sights, and he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to get away if Jason’s as determined as he seems to be. “Not enough criminals in your side of town to keep your attention?” he asks, mouth dry.</p><p>Red Hood cocks his head to the side, and Tim knows he’s being examined again. “I wanted something a bit more challenging tonight,” he says slowly. “And I remembered you. <em>Robin</em>. The Bat’s newest Orphan Annie.” Another step forward, and Tim’s tense now, just waiting for the attack he knows is coming.</p><p>“You’re not my enemy,” Tim says, his voice stronger than he feels. “I don’t actually <em>want</em> to fight you.”</p><p>He laughs, and it sounds like broken glass, harsh enough to make Tim wince. “Then you should have activated that tracker in your suit the second I stepped foot on this roof, little bird. You should have called the Bat when you had the chance.”</p><p><em>Damn it</em>. Tim cycles through his options quickly, his brain shoving aside the conflicting emotions in his head, the things that somehow only Jason can rile up in him, because it’s <em>Jason</em>. He doesn’t like the plan he comes up with.</p><p>The problem is, Tim is very small. He’s sixteen years old, mostly done with his growth spurt, and he’s only five and a half feet tall, weighs only one hundred and thirty pounds. He’s strong, no one can deny that, but he’s long and lean, not burly. He fights with his brain instead of brawn, relies on strategy and skill instead of barreling fists-first into a fight like Batman can.</p><p>Jason, on the other hand, is six feet of solid muscle, built like a <em>mountain</em>, has biceps bigger than Tim’s head and a broad expanse of chest. He knows how to use his strength, shoves his way into a fight and makes himself impossible to avoid.</p><p>Tim is a strong fighter in his own right, knows he can beat Jason if he gets everything right, but he’s also painfully aware that Jason can beat him too, has proven it several times over. There’s less chance of getting shot at close range, and Tim can slip his way out of nearly anything, but if he makes one mistake, he has no doubt that Jason will take him down.</p><p>Tim flings the knife in his hand, catching Jason’s armored wrist and knocking the gun out of his grasp, and vaults away even as he feels fingers clutching at his shoulder.</p><p>It’s a total crap shoot, and all he can think is that he’s never really been good at gambling.</p><p>He’s on the defensive for most of the fight, ducking and crouching, steering away from the edges, trying to keep them in the middle of the roof so Jason doesn’t do something stupid like try to throw him off of it. Tim’s whipped out his bo staff and Jason has a long knife on him for the first few seconds, though Tim manages to hit his wrist with a nerve strike, causing the man to drop it, much to Tim’s relief.</p><p>They don’t speak, the sounds of their fight disappearing into the Gotham night. It’s a soundtrack that Tim’s familiar with; flesh hitting flesh, the slide of a fist against Kevlar, his breaths coming quick and loud, pained hisses when one of them manages to get a hit in.</p><p>Jason is a whirlwind of never-ending offensive moves, doing his best to crush Tim with pure, overwhelming momentum. Tim sees an opportunity, snaps his staff hard against the side of Jason’s bare face, and the other man swears aggressively when the blow cuts into his cheek, just below his temple.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Pretender,” he growls, the first words since he’d moved on Tim, and then he’s diving forward, and Tim can’t manage to move back fast enough. Jason catches him hard around the midsection, and they both go down. The fall knocks the wind out of Tim, and then Jason’s straddling him, knees pressed tight into his sides. Tim’s right arm is crushed awkwardly underneath his back, and he scrabbles for his staff with his left, trying desperately to get out of this before it’s too late. One of Jason’s hands shoots out and pins his free wrist to the ground, and Tim is effectively trapped. Tim’s still struggling for breath, caught under Jason’s bulk, and then the other man is shoving his own bo staff into his throat, tight under his jaw, forcing his head up.</p><p>They’re both breathing hard and heavy, Tim from his place on the ground, Jason on top of him. Tim’s ribs are screaming under the man’s weight, and there’s a tight spot behind his shoulder blade that he thinks is going to turn into a nasty bruise. Jason, for his part, is gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his side where Tim had swatted him hard with the staff, and there’s blood slowly trickling down the side of his face, collecting at his chin.</p><p>A drop of it drips down, lands on Tim’s cheek. He flinches in spite of himself.</p><p>“You know, I think I missed seeing you on the ground beneath me,” Jason growls, grinding the staff hard into Tim’s neck. Tim arches in protest, writhing beneath him as his abused lungs scream for air. Jason pulls off almost as soon as he’d begun.</p><p>“For someone so committed to staying under Batman’s radar, you sure are willing to leave some distinctive marks,” Tim rasps, jerking his chin to draw the other man’s attention to the bruise he can feel forming beneath his jaw. </p><p>“Here’s what’s gonna happen, little bird,” Jason says conversationally, settling more heavily on Tim’s hips when the boy starts to wriggle again. “In a minute, I’m gonna get off of you. And you’re gonna limp your way home, let good ole Alfie patch you up, and keep your mouth shut about what just happened here.”</p><p>Tim glares up into the blank lenses of the domino. “Am I, now?” he says, voice skeptical. “You really think he’s going to believe that I got my ass handed to me by some street thugs? I may not be as good as he is, but I’m not incompetent.”</p><p>Jason shrugs above him, like he couldn’t be bothered. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. This is the best you’ve done yet. Keep practicing with me, and you may find yourself improving.”</p><p>A vein in Tim’s forehead twitches. “Practice,” he drawls. “That’s what you’re going to call this.”</p><p>“Don’t make me repeat myself, <em>Robin</em>,” he says, voice deceptively soft.</p><p>“<em>Fine</em>,” he snarls, surging up against the bo staff. This time, Jason lets him go.</p><p>Tim scrambles to his feet, shaking out the pins and needles in the hand that had been squashed beneath him. Red Hood hurls the staff at him and Tim catches it with ease. “You’re a piece of work, little bird,” Hood says, and he sounds amused.</p><p>Tim’s going to get fucking whiplash from Jason’s mood swings. “You’re one to talk,” he says, flexing his fingers gingerly.</p><p>“Yeah, but everyone <em>knows</em> I’m fucked up,” the other man points out. “I’ve seen you fight, kiddo, and you’re right, you’re not bad. This fight could have lasted a lot longer, should have, but you just gave up, didn’t you? Maybe subconsciously, but that doesn’t change the fact that you just rolled over and let me do all that shit to you. Got some masochistic tendencies, kid? Need someone to put you in your place?”</p><p>His voice is hard when he responds. “I don’t need anything from you, thanks.”</p><p>Jason snorts, leans over to where he’d set his helmet on the lip of the rooftop. “Ooh, harsh.” He slides the helmet back into place with quick, efficient movements, the fight clearly complete. When he continues, his voice is coated with the metallic intonation of the helmet tech once again. “Listen, at the end of the day, you’re gonna do what you want, as per the usual for his Robin’s. But just think for a minute: you think he’s gonna let you even leave the Cave if he finds out I’m looking for you, much less let you patrol all by yourself?”</p><p>Tim grinds his teeth and doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t have to; it’s a rhetorical question, through and through, and they both know the answer. They both know that if Bruce caught wind of what had just occurred, then Tim wouldn’t even be allowed out of the manor to go to <em>school</em> without Bruce at his side.</p><p>The laugh echoes through the hood, and Tim hates that he’s heard it often enough in this interaction that the mechanical sound almost seems normal to him now, same as the screech of Oracle’s cackle through her computer. “That’s what I thought,” he says smugly. His hand snakes down to his belt, and Tim’s sliding into a defensive stance on instinct alone, not relaxing even when the only thing Jason does is pull out a grapple. “Thanks for the spar, kid,” he nods at Tim, fiddling with the tool in his hand while he walks casually toward the edge of the roof. “But I’ve got real business to attend to now.”</p><p>“So I guess this was pleasure after all?” Tim raises an eyebrow, an echo of his earlier words.</p><p>Red Hood pauses, turns his head back in Tim’s direction, and Tim can’t see it, but he swears Jason’s smiling. “Something like that.” Then he’s tapping the side of his helmet and talking to someone else, someone on the other end of his comm, and Tim watches silently (always watching) as the man disappears into the night.</p><p>He waits a full minute before he relaxes and deflates like a leftover balloon from a children’s birthday party. “This is not good,” he says out loud, but he’s not entirely sure if that’s true. Yes, Jason had just tracked him down. He’d threatened Tim, fought Tim, shoved Tim to the ground and had him at his mercy. But he’d not once given any indication that he actually wanted to <em>kill</em> him. Tim runs idle fingers over his neck where permanent proof of Jason’s violent tendencies is scarred into his skin, and can’t help but think that this is improvement.</p><p>When he goes back to the Cave after patrol and Bruce asks him how his night was, Tim bites his tongue and smiles prettily and doesn’t mention a word about Jason, despite the guilt in the pit of his stomach. That guilt eases slightly when Bruce doesn’t push further, when he just nods and goes back to concentrating on the files in front of him.</p><p>It hurts, how easy it is to lie to Bruce, even after all this time working together. But Tim’s used to being ignored, used to absentee parents who don’t have time for him, and he’s long since learned how to squash his emotions down deep when they’re not useful. So he strips out of his suit, grabs an apple and an energy drink that Bruce glares at, and pulls a chair up to the conference table to work.</p><p>He’s got better things to do than worry about Jason fucking Todd.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Tim is surprised when the Red Hood comes looking for him again. It’s a relatively quiet patrol, a night for cleaning up the city one criminal at a time rather than the big busts. He’s just stopped a gang rape and is still hopped up from the adrenaline of the fight. He’d actually gotten a knife pulled on him tonight, which gave him the excuse he needed to up the ante. It’s fun, in a perverse way, because while he got a chance to hit a little harder than he needed to under the guise of protecting himself from a deadly weapon, he knows that same weapon would have been used on innocents if he hadn’t been here to save the day.</p><p>He’s bent over to secure the last of the unconscious, would-be rapists, when he hears him.</p><p>“Robin.” The voice is playful, teasing, but it cuts through the darkness with precision. A second later, Tim hears the unmistakable sound of a knife whistling against the air, and he spins away, narrowly avoiding a blade to the back. “We need to have a <em>chat</em>, little bird.”</p><p>His gaze rises to the tops of the buildings framing the alley, and spots a dark silhouette on the fire escape opposite him. “Not done yet,” Tim growls, just loudly enough that he knows he’ll be heard.</p><p>“What else—<em>ah</em>,” Red Hood cuts himself off as he suddenly sees what he’d missed in his first pass over the alley: a girl, huddled tightly against the side of the dumpster, with scared dark eyes and trembling hands. He leans forward, the metal creaking under his weight, and rests his forearms against the railing to watch. “Carry on, then, fearless Robin.”</p><p>Tim doesn’t let his uncertainty show, instead kneels down carefully next to the girl and offers his hand, his voice soft as he says, “Come on, it’s safe now. Let’s get you up, hmm? That’s it,” he encourages when she reaches out and grabs his glove, letting him pull her to her feet.</p><p>The girl’s tiny and fragile, her eyes wet with tears, and even Tim, small as he is, dwarfs her in size. “I—thank you,” she manages, her voice shaking.</p><p>“It’s ok,” he assures her, bending down slightly to eliminate the few inches he has on her. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Tanya,” she whispers.</p><p>“Tanya,” he repeats. “It’s nice to meet you, Tanya. I’m Robin. Now, where are you coming from? Where were you going before this?”</p><p>Her hand comes up to scrub at a tear that escapes her control. “I—I work at the diner just up the block. I was coming home from work. I—I’m only sixteen,” she adds, unbidden, and another tear falls.</p><p><em>Me too</em>, Tim doesn’t say. “That’s ok, Tanya, this wasn’t your fault, not in any way. You were just caught in a bad place by some bad people. Here,” he shuffles for something in his belt, and then pushes a fifty dollar bill into her hand, ignoring her small sound of surprise. “Go back to your diner, call a cab, and go home. I’ll take care of these men. Next time you work late, get someone to accompany you home, understand?”</p><p>“I—yes,” she nods frantically. Her eyes dart suddenly up, to where Jason’s still waiting. “That’s the Red Hood,” the girl says, voice barely above a whisper.</p><p>Tim casts a quick glance to the fire escape above him, where Jason has turned his interest to the girl. He knows that the man must have heard her words. “Yes, it is,” Robin responds tactfully.</p><p>“I’ve seen him on the news,” she bites her lip, and looks back at Robin earnestly, eyes focusing on his white lenses. “He kills people.”</p><p>Robin offers up a half smile. “Only the bad ones.” She doesn’t look particularly convinced. “He’d never hurt you,” he continues. “Not innocent people.”</p><p>“What about <em>you</em>?” she demands, her voice gaining more confidence as the fear begins to wear off – or maybe, as the shock begins to kick in.</p><p>He eyes Jason again, thinks about the smirk he’s sure lies beneath the helmet, and bites down a little too hard on the inside of his cheek. “I’m Robin,” he says to the girl. “I can handle myself.”</p><p>That seems to be enough for her, because she nods determinedly and then rushes forward, throwing her arms tightly around his neck. He catches her, half-expecting the motion, and lets her bury her head against his chest for a moment, whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over until she finally relaxes her hold.</p><p>“Go, now,” he tells her, firmly but kindly, and she darts out of the alley and into the open air of Gotham. He leans over and yanks the blade Hood had thrown at him bodily out of the crumbling brick, examining the sleek shine. “What happened to those fancy serrated knives you have, Hood? Like the one you tried to slit my throat with?”</p><p>“It’s in storage,” the Hood’s synthesized voice tells him. “But I’d be happy to bring it back out just for you, Pretender.”</p><p>It’s a strange thing, bantering with Jason Todd. On the one hand, Tim can wordsmith and talk trash with the best of them. On the other… Tim has no idea what kinds of things are likely to set Jason off. And Tim might be able to joke about it now, but he still has nightmarish flashbacks to that day they’d met, when Jason had sliced his throat open and Bruce had watched him bleed.</p><p>“Lemme call the GCPD,” Robin mutters, already whipping out the computer display in his gauntlet. “I’ll meet you on the roof.”</p><p>The Red Hood is waiting for him when he’s done, leaning nonchalantly against an air conditioning unit and smoking a cigarette. The iconic red helmet is resting beside him, and Tim wastes no time taking in Jason’s face.</p><p>He’s wearing a red domino mask, his eyes covered by the same blank lenses that Tim’s are. After all the years they’ve both spent training at Batman’s side, they don’t need to see the eyes themselves to know when they’re staring at each other. It isn’t as though this is the first time Tim’s seen Jason without his helmet. Their paths have crossed several times in the last few months, but Tim’s certain that he’s never seen Jason this relaxed before, not even the last time. Normally, he’s looking to tear Tim apart. Tonight, he doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.</p><p>“What’s up, Hood?” he says carefully.</p><p>Jason looks into the Gotham night and puffs on his cigarette. “How old are you, little bird?”</p><p>Tim blinks in surprise. “What?”</p><p>“How <em>old</em> are you, <em>Pretender</em>?” Jason repeats, an edge to his voice now.</p><p>Tim raises an eyebrow. “Why? Are you trying to figure out if I’m legal enough to hurt even more than you already have? Want to know if I’m ready for phase two? Because I’m just saying, you slit my throat when I was barely fifteen, it isn’t ever gonna get worse than that.”</p><p>“Please, we haven’t gotten anywhere near our hard limits yet,” Jason says, grinning one of those mean grins that makes Tim want to squirm in spite of himself. “C’mon,” he prods, un-crossing his arms and resting a hand meaningfully on one of his thigh holsters. “It’s not like it’s a big secret.”</p><p>Tim doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Does it really matter?” he finally asks, his voice distant. “It’s not going to change anything. It doesn’t erase any of the things that have happened.” <em>The things you’ve done to me</em>, he doesn’t say.</p><p>When he replies, Jason’s voice is rough and gravelly and makes Tim shiver. He’s not sure if it’s from fear or… something else. “Oh, I doubt that I’ve done anything you haven’t already experienced as the Bat’s newest partner. The only thing that’s different is that it’s me, instead of some anonymous piece of shit in the city.” He smirks, and lets his eyes traverse Tim’s slim body leisurely, drawing it out on purpose to make Tim uncomfortable.</p><p>“It might surprise you to hear this—or, you know, it might not,” Tim drawls, eyes dark and cold, “but you’re not the only big bad on the street that likes pretty boys with dark hair.” His mouth twists into a bitter smile, and the volume of his voice drops like he’s telling a secret. “I get a lot of offers.”</p><p>Red Hood is on him in seconds, hand twisting in the collar of his uniform, shoving him against the wall of the alley hard enough that he slams his head back against the brick. He lets the other man do it, doesn’t make a move to stop him.</p><p>There’s a hand at his throat, tight but not uncomfortably so, and another with a knife resting firmly against his abdomen. His head is tilted back against the brick to look into the angry gaze of the Red Hood, blue eyes hidden behind his domino mask, his vision swimming from the hit. “But somehow, I think you might have known that already,” Tim continues. “<em>Jason</em>.”</p><p>“My name doesn’t belong in your mouth,” the other man warns, and he’s so close that Tim can feel his body heat radiating through both of their uniforms, can hear Jason’s quick breathing.  </p><p>Tim cocks his head slightly, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, an action that starts as a nervous tic but becomes deliberate when he feels Jason shift his position, his grip around Tim’s neck loosening. He drags the knife slowly up the front of Tim’s uniform, just enough pressure for Tim to feel the point against his skin without tearing the Kevlar. Up, up, pausing tantalizingly slow at his jugular, where there’s a stark white scar hidden under his uniform, before tracing across his cheekbone, light as a feather.</p><p>“You <em>are</em> fuckin’ pretty though, little bird,” Red Hood breathes, and Tim’s exhale is a little ragged. “Too pretty for this kind of work. Give it a few more years, this city’s gonna eat you whole, spit you out and make you its own. Make you <em>different</em>, make you a little less like Bats and a little more like me.”</p><p>“You may not remember this, but no one who joins up with the Batman is operating at a hundred percent,” Tim scoffs, a nasty edge to his voice, a hint of anger that doesn’t surge up often. “I’m <em>already</em> a little fucked up.”</p><p>Jason pauses, head twisting as he examines the boy he’s got pinned tight. He takes in the small frame, standing stock-still like death isn’t staring him in the face, the only indication of his emotions the fast rise and fall of his narrow chest, up then down, in fear or excitement or both. “You know,” he says, and he finally releases Tim’s throat, instead bracing his arm against the wall beside his head, leaning closer to cage him in. “I think you’re right about that.”</p><p>When he kisses him, it’s as violent and hard as Tim had expected it would be. Jason crowds him against the wall and grinds his shoulder blades into brick, one hand gripping his jaw hard enough to bruise. It’s all tongue and teeth, biting into the sensitive flesh of his lower lip, opens up a split he’d gotten the other night, and he tastes blood.</p><p>He lets the kiss last approximately twenty seconds. It isn’t really unexpected, nor is it completely unwanted. Tim lets it go on just long enough for Jason to get just distracted enough that he stops watching Tim’s actions so closely. Tim makes a sharp grab for the knife that’s still clutched loosely in Jason’s free hand, shoves Jason hard enough that he stumbles back a step, giving Tim the opening he needs to duck free. He’s across the roof in seconds, and doesn’t break eye contact as tosses the knife firmly away from where Jason still stands, his chest heaving with emotion and exertion and sheer nerves.</p><p>Jason swipes his hand across his mouth and doesn’t move. His heavy-lidded eyes follow Tim like the younger boy is a magnet he can’t stop gravitating toward. “I learn something new about you every time we talk, little bird,” he comments, voice casual but tinged with something darker. “And you know what? I think I <em>like</em> you.”</p><p>“What’s not to like, really?” He doesn’t snarl the words, but he comes close. He’s vibrating with pent-up energy, and, for all his intelligence and detective skills, he can’t quite pinpoint which emotions, exactly, are causing the tension.</p><p>Jason laughs lowly, and it’s a sound that just <em>screams</em> bad intentions. “You gonna tell the Bat about our tête-à-têtes, little bird? Tell him all about how the evil Red Hood gave you the bad touch?”</p><p>Tim feels uncomfortable in his own skin, with the fire roiling in the pit of his belly and his dry mouth and his finely trembling hands. He feels like he’s been turned inside out, like someone’s tried to cram him into a box but couldn’t quite get the lid on, caught in a situation he doesn’t know how to handle. “I think you should be a little more careful with that gun and aim it somewhere other than kill zones,” Tim replies frostily, and it’s only by sheer force of will that his voice doesn’t crack.</p><p>The other man takes a few steps forward, grabs his helmet from the AC unit he’d left it on, and pulls it on, obscuring his face from view. “Sure thing, kid,” he replies, his voice echoing from the metal of the hood. “Tell Bats I said he can go fuck himself. If, you know, you make the mistake of informing him of our chats.” His voice drops half an octave as he threatens Tim. “I don’t think I have to tell you how I might react to that.”</p><p>“Batman doesn’t negotiate with criminals, and neither do I,” Tim says flatly.</p><p>“Keep telling yourself that,” he replies easily. He walks to the edge of the roof and peers over the side, pondering his next move. “Do remember, I’m not the <em>bad guy</em> here, no matter what daddy dearest says. But I <em>can</em><em>be</em>.” He turns to face Tim, who readies himself in case of another fight (or something else), and pauses a beat or two, just looking at him. “I’ll catch you later, little bird,” he finally says, and then he’s jumping off of the roof, the sound of a grapnel shooting out only after a few seconds of free fall, and Tim’s alone again, Jason Todd’s words echoing in his mind.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t tell Bruce.</p><p>He knows he should. He chooses not to.</p><p>He tells himself it’s for practical reasons; he knows for a fact that if Bruce knew just how interested Jason Todd, the homicidal and unpredictable Red Hood, is in Tim, then he’d lock Tim in the Manor for weeks. Tim wouldn’t be allowed out as Robin, maybe not even be allowed to help from the Cave, because Bruce is rightfully paranoid about losing another Robin, and he doesn’t want Tim anywhere near Red Hood.</p><p>The thing is, Tim doesn’t actually think that Jason wants to kill him; in the past, sure, but they’d had a number of meetings in the last few weeks, and Jason had been threatening and suspicious and thrown him around like a rag doll, but he’d never once given any indication that he wanted Tim dead.</p><p>Tim self-consciously swipes a hand across his lips, can feel Jason’s touch on his cheek. If nothing else, he thinks, Jason wants something <em>different</em> from Tim. And Tim isn’t completely opposed to the idea of giving it to him.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>“So does that mean you’ll be taking over the family business?” the reporter too close to him asks. “Bruce Wayne has been tight-lipped about any hint of a succession plan, but it doesn’t seem as though Dick Grayson has any interest at all, and, well – you’re the only other one left, aren’t you?”</p><p>Tim smiles tightly. “I’m still a minor; it’s a little too early to think about something like that, don’t you think?”</p><p>“But you’re applying to colleges as we speak, and I’m told you’re seen not infrequently at the Wayne Enterprises HQ,” she continues quickly, “so I don’t think it’s too far of a presumption.”</p><p>“As you say,” Tim says through gritted teeth, “a presumption.”</p><p>It isn’t as though she’s wrong: Tim does spend a fair portion of his daylight hours learning the ins and outs of WE, whenever he isn’t in school. But it isn’t the most important part of his life by any means, and actually he doesn’t think it’s the media’s business anyways.</p><p>It’s one of the few things he really <em>hates</em> about the benefit galas and business dinner parties that he’s invited to as the newest Wayne orphan-adoptee. He can wear the suit, play the part, smile pretty, but he despises the barrage of constant questions, especially once the media figured out he was actually willing to play nice – <em>unlike the last one</em> is the unspoken refrain.</p><p>“You’ll have to forgive me,” the woman simpers (<em>fake</em>), as though Tim has any choice, “it’s my job to ask these questions. WE is a multi-industry global corporation – do you have any idea of what you’d want to focus on in university to help navigate it? Do I see a future business major, or would you prefer to specialize?”</p><p>“You know, I really do think it’s a little too early to provide any sort of meaningful responses to these questions,” Tim says, more of a snarky snarl than a neutral statement. “It’s a bit anxiety-inducing to try to come up with an answer that I don’t have.”</p><p>The reporter half-snorts. “Ah, so the ice queen has feelings after all?” she remarks snidely, taking a smug sip of her drink.</p><p>“That’s a shockingly problematic statement,” Tim says evenly, not rising to her bait. “And not even creative. What an odd characteristic for a journalist.”</p><p>“Emotions a touchy subject, huh?” she asks, swirling her ice cubes. “Still a bit raw after Daddy dearest’s untimely death, orphan boy?”</p><p>Tim feels every muscle in his body lock, and he has a sudden, overwhelming desire to punch this stupid, pretentious woman so hard that she can’t see straight. His fists clench. She notices his tension, takes one glance at the expression on his face, and takes an unconscious step back.</p><p>“I think we’re done here,” he says in a deadly calm voice, and the reporter swallows visibly. “I hope you have a wonderful night.”</p><p>He doesn’t run for the exit, but he comes damn close, and several people comment on his sudden escape, at the poor, unfortunate Drake boy.</p><p>Moments later, there’s the unmistakable crash of a table turning over in the next room, and the idle noise of the party dips as all eyes pivot toward the source, whispers echoing as to the cause. People put it together quickly, and the center of attention turns to Bruce Wayne, who is looking off in the direction of the sound with a tightly controlled expression of worry. All trace of Brucie the party monster is gone. He looks like a man who is not to be trifled with.</p><p>He makes his way over to where Tim had stood moments earlier, where the self-righteous reporter now appears as though she’s deeply regretting her words, and says in a low, angry voice, “He’s sixteen years old and his father has just been murdered. In what universe did you think it was acceptable to rub his face in that fact?”</p><p>“I—I just,” she stammers, face going red.</p><p>“Get the hell out of my house, and tell your editor you’re no longer welcome at Wayne-sponsored events,” he orders in a flat voice that books no room for arguments, before brushing past her without looking back.</p><p>He finds Tim easily, standing just inside the entry hall over the remains of a toppled side table. There’s glass everywhere, a puddle of water from a flower arrangement, but the thing that worries Bruce is the blank, closed-off expression on Tim’s face.</p><p>“Sorry I caused a scene,” he says quietly, voice distant and remote. “It won’t happen again. I just, uh—I need a minute.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t make you go back out there, Tim,” Bruce says, standing close to the younger boy but not making a move to touch him. He understands the need for space, and he understands that Tim’s not the kind of person who uses hugs for healing. “Not when you’re like this.”</p><p>Tim looks down absently and realizes his hands are shaking, even when balled into fists. He has to force himself to unclench his fingers, stretches them and then slides them into his pockets, as if hiding them from sight can make him stop hating his emotional response. “That woman,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his voice, so warped with muted anger. “She wouldn’t stop <em>prying</em>. I just wanted her to shut up, and she wouldn’t do it, kept poking until I <em>snapped</em>.”</p><p>Bruce looks at his son, their legal relationship so new that the ink has barely even dried on the adoption papers, and he realizes that he recognizes this type of anger, this build of fury so strong that it turns even Tim sour. It’s something all of his Robin’s have struggled with, something he too has work at; it’s that anger that never goes away, fury that exists despite any and all attempts to negate it, the ferocity that simmers just below the blood and rears its head only in the worst of circumstances.</p><p>Maybe it’s because the Red Hood is active again and maybe it’s because Tim is more like his predecessor than Bruce would like to think, but all he can think of when he looks at his third son is Jason.</p><p>Jason was the same way, another sixteen-year old boy who felt too much, who carried weary bones in a world that had crushed and molded him into the person he was, an angry child who lashed out without provocation. Bruce had taken that anger and given it a direction, channeled it into fighting crime and the vigilante lifestyle, had turned it productive. Jason had been like this a lot, never able to keep it under control the way Tim can, or turn it productive like Dick could (or at least tried). The best solution Bruce had found was to just send the boy into the streets on his own, let him fight it out of his system, until he returned bloody and exhausted but grinning ear to ear like a savage, the anger subsumed beneath the exhilaration that was being Robin.</p><p>Bruce looks down at Tim, who is several inches shorter and a good thirty pounds of muscle lighter than Jason was at sixteen (<em>than Jason was when he died</em>), and sets his teeth. “Go out,” he says bluntly, steeling himself as the boy turns his questioning gaze on him. “Tricorner should be busy tonight, or there’s always something going on in the Narrows. Just—go out and work this out of your system.”</p><p>Realization alights in Tim’s eyes, along with something vicious that Bruce doesn’t look too closely at, and he flexes his arms, rotates his wrists idly. “Anyone in particular at the docks?” </p><p>“Our friend with many faces has been active lately,” Bruce replies, conscious of anyone who might be listening. “You could do some good there.”</p><p>Tim is nodding slowly, already slipping into Robin mode, his analytical mind creating connections and plans without having even changed yet. He checks the expensive watch on his arm that he doesn’t care about; it isn’t even midnight yet. “You’re staying here, I take it?”</p><p>A grimace; “Someone has to play host.”</p><p>There’s a short, business-like nod. “Understood. I’ll be back by morning.” A ghost of a smile appears on the sharp contours of his face. “Don’t party too hard, <em>Brucie</em>.”</p><p>“Give the Commissioner my love,” Bruce replies, and Tim bares his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>Robin drops onto the roof of the GCPD with more noise than Batman would have made, but it’s intentional; dressed head to toe in yellow and green, Robin’s never been as subtle or shadowy as his partner, even if Tim’s uniform isn’t quite so flashy as Dick’s had been. If Batman is the creature of the night, prowling around just out of sight, Robin is the light that guides the bat back to the cave, back to reality where the rest of the world is. He doesn’t have to hide like Batman does.</p><p>Officers Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock are standing around the lit-up Bat Lamp, a cigarette in Gordon’s hand and a cup of coffee in Bullock’s. Tim ignores the gnawing in his stomach that craves a hit of caffeine, and reminds himself sternly to never take up smoking; he’s obsessive enough about everything to add genuine addiction into the mix.</p><p>“Gordon,” Robin says, low and authoritative, the way Tim Drake’s voice never sounds, giving the one civilian that Batman had ever let close to him time to turn and face him.</p><p>“Robin,” Jim Gordon says, his voice half a question, eyes darting around the rooftop in search of his other half.</p><p>“It’s just me tonight,” Robin answers the unasked thought, reaching out casually to switch the lamp off. The sound echoes across the rooftop.</p><p>Bullock squints at him. “He hasn’t sent just the one of you in a while.”</p><p>Tim stares back coolly. “I finally beat the training curve.” His tone isn’t malicious, necessarily, but it isn’t nice either. “Wanna fill me in on what’s happening with Two-Face, or not?”</p><p>Gordon stubs his cigarette out with a pointed glare at Bullock, and holds out a bulging file for Robin’s perusal.</p><p>He reaches out with an armored gauntlet and flips through it steadily, eyes scanning for keywords, looking for anything to fill in the gaps. What he sees just confirms his suspicions, and he glances up at the two detectives. “And the reason the GCPD isn’t all over this is because…?”</p><p>Gordon pulls a face. “We got wind of tonight’s deal from an inside informant, but we couldn’t get enough evidence to concretely connect it to Dent. Narco doesn’t want to burn an informant and potential witness if we can’t even use the events of the night in court.”</p><p>Tim finds himself nodding. “Makes sense,” he murmurs, running a finger absently down the list illegal items suspected of coming in on the shipment tonight, none of which is on the official shipping manifest. He snaps the file closed and looks back up at the two men, eyes sharp. “That doesn’t mean I can just let him walk off with six tons of coke and a certifiable war chest worth of arms tonight.”</p><p>“You knew about this already?” Gordon guesses.</p><p>Robin shrugs non-committedly. “Sure, but it’s still good to know we have friends we can count on here.”</p><p>“Friends,” Bullock snorts, his first contribution to the conversation.</p><p>“Connections,” Robin clarifies slowly, resisting the urge to say something rude. “It’s useful to have people to rely on in this line of work, as you should know.”</p><p>“Well, you’re a lot nicer than the last one,” Bullock grunts. “Though not quite as much as the one before him.”</p><p>Tim turns on his thousand-watt smile, the one that reminds Dick of a shark. “I’ll tell you what, Bullock, as long as you stick to abusing drugs instead of selling them, you and I are gonna get along <em>just fine</em>.”</p><p>Bullock sputters. “Where the hell does he <em>find</em> you asshole kids?”</p><p>He doesn’t reply, just nods sharply at the two of them, more of a goodbye than Batman ever gives, and doesn’t smile until he’s several rooftops away, no longer Robin, but another faceless figure in the night. He feels lighter, somehow, especially now that he’s got concrete information on Two-Face’s dealings on the docks. Tim’s the kind of guy who likes structure and order, who works extremely well when he’s got a specific objective in sight. He doesn’t have to think about his dead parents or the reporter who won’t stop asking questions, he just has to focus on the mission, and that—well, Tim can handle that.</p><p>Two hours later, he’s settled into stakeout mode with a prime view of the docks. When he hears the heavy thud of boots landing on the warehouse roof next to him, he doesn’t even need to turn to see who it is.</p><p>“I’m really not in the mood for this tonight,” Tim says, not bothering to raise his voice. He knows the other man can hear him.</p><p>“Do you actually think I give a shit?” is the somewhat expected reply. It’s ridiculous that Tim knows enough about the Red Hood that he has <em>expectations</em>. The man is in a good mood tonight, even if Tim’s still bitter enough to hiss. </p><p>He doesn’t turn from his perch but continues to watch through his binoculars as one of Two-Face’s top men begins to direct his lackeys toward a large cargo ship docked in the harbor. Between the intel he’d given a cursory look before heading out and what Gordon had hold him, he’s confident that the cargo coming in tonight is drugs. Likely cocaine, but there’s a chance that Two-Face is bringing in heroine too. He edges forward just a little bit, trying to get the tech to zoom in far enough that he can read the man’s lips.</p><p>“How ‘bout I just fill you in?” Red Hood asks, his voice closer than it had been before. “Here’s a hint: you probably don’t want to get any closer to the docks than you are right now.”</p><p>That’s enough to get Tim’s attention. He drops the binoculars, and turns to eye Red Hood warily. “What did you do?” he asks suspiciously.</p><p>The other man is standing beside him now, and the edge of his jacket brushes against Tim’s arm when he shrugs. “I saw in the society pages that there was a gala tonight, figured you’d be, ah, <em>indisposed</em>. So I thought I’d take care of this for the big man, let him enjoy his night off.”</p><p>Tim strongly doubts Jason’s motives, but not for a second does he think the other man is lying, and his hackles rise. “Please tell me that ship isn’t rigged to blow,” he says, a hint of desperation in his voice.</p><p>There’s that mechanical laugh that Tim’s grown familiar with. “You don’t want me to lie to you, do you, little bird?”</p><p>“Goddamn it, Hood,” Tim hisses. This night could literally not get worse.</p><p>Another laugh, meaner this time. “Don’t start with me. The ship’s full of designer drugs that are just going to get pumped into private schools and clubs. And god knows the GCPD doesn’t need any more coke to disappear out of their evidence lockers. If you ask me, I’m doing them a favor by getting rid of it.”</p><p>“When’s it set to go off?” he asks, all business, looking back in his binoculars to see how the deal has progressed. It looks like Two-Face’s people are still arguing with the pilots of the boat, the latter probably trying to get more money for their troubles. No one’s made the move to unload so far. So, if he’s lucky, he still has time to get in there and defuse Jason’s homemade bombs before the harbor turns into a demolition site.</p><p>“About ten minutes.”</p><p>Tim swears again, more aggressively this time, and spins to glare at Jason. “For Christ’s sake, would you <em>think</em> for once in your life? How are we supposed to actually catch these people if all the evidence of their crimes gets blown to smithereens? A he-said-she-said defense doesn’t actually work in a courtroom, and it’s not like Robin can go on trial as a witness!”</p><p>He and Batman had been working on Two-Face’s case for weeks now, had been doing a decent job at disrupting major operations and pushing the man into a corner, forcing him to cut risky deals he wouldn’t normally even look at, all in the hopes that they’d be able to actually catch him in the justice system this time. The drugs will be destroyed and kept off the streets if Red Hood blows the ship, sure, but that’s far too short-sighted, where Tim’s concerned; the real coup would be if he could use the boat and its contents as another battle won for the prosecution against Harvey Dent, enough to finally pin something on him and put him in jail.</p><p>He says as much to Red Hood, ending with an irritated, “Unless you’re planning to murder every major criminal in the city, you have to work with the police to a certain extent. That’s how justice <em>works</em>.”</p><p>“Maybe I <em>am</em> planning to murder every criminal in Gotham,” Hood replies languidly, seemingly unaffected by Tim’s impassioned speech.</p><p>Tim rolls his eyes emphatically. “I call bullshit.”</p><p>Hood obviously isn’t expecting that answer, and he’s startled into a laugh. There’s a smile in his voice when he asks, light and teasing, “There’s five minutes left on that detonator, little bird. What are you willing to do to stop me from setting it off?”</p><p>Tim pauses, a long, drawn-out silence that Jason finds intriguing, makes him want to know what exactly is going on in that head of his. And then the kid suddenly steps closer, pressing himself to Jason’s front, resting one hand on the center of Jason’s chest and trailing the other slowly down his abdomen before coming to a halt on the man’s belt buckle. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice low and throaty, and Jason actually fucking shivers under his touch.</p><p>The other man’s hands skim up his sides, settling lightly on his narrow hips, fingers splaying out around the small of his back, like he’s trying to encircle Tim’s entire waist. “You play dirty,” he breathes, and tightens his grip.</p><p>“There’s only a few minutes left now,” Tim replies, cocking his head to the side as he’s forced to look up in order to meet the blank face of the Red Hood. “Do we have a deal or not?”</p><p>Jason can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in his chest, and drops one hand to rummage around in the pocket of his jacket before emerging with a small, high-tech device. Tim is almost surprised; most of Jason’s equipment looks second-hand at best, save his guns; nothing like the things that Wayne money can buy. “Can’t say you’re not committed to the cause, kid,” he shakes his head, and fiddles with the remote.</p><p>Tim holds his breath, half-expecting Jason to ignore his advances and blow the ship up anyway, but, after a minute, when nothing happens, he relaxes and casts a quick glance toward the docks, where Two-Face’s men, oblivious to how close they’ve just come to death by immolation, have begun to unload the drugs. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I, uh—” He suddenly realizes what he’s just done, and his face flushes slightly. He’s propositioned Jason fucking Todd, and the other man <em>didn’t say no</em>.</p><p>Red Hood releases his hold on the younger boy, takes a step back. At Tim’s questioning look, he scoffs, and stows the detonator back in his pocket. “Do I look like a fucking sexual predator to you?” he says bluntly. “Please. I’m not going to manipulate you into fucking me just so you can go home and tell Daddy all about how you did the right thing and stopped the Red Hood from doing bad things to worse people. I’m not that kind of a motherfucker.”</p><p>Tim goes even redder. <em>Jesus</em>.</p><p>Jason gives an incredulous snort. “Come on, kid,” he says gruffly, motioning at the business on the docks. “I’m here. You’re here. Let’s go kick some ass, stop the bad guys, so I can head home and get some fucking sleep.”</p><p>“You can’t shoot anyone,” Tim orders automatically.</p><p>He can’t see through the helmet, but he’s pretty sure that Jason raises an eyebrow at him.</p><p>“It’s about the image, you know that,” Tim persuades, trying not to say anything that will set Jason’s temper off. “Robin’s not that kind of hero. He can beat the shit out of people, but he can’t kill them. Can you imagine the chaos, if Batman’s partner was wanted for murder? Don’t put me in that situation, man.”</p><p>A long exhale that, through the helmet, sounds like a setting on a synthesizer. Then: “Fine,” Jason agrees through gritted teeth. “I won’t kill anyone. But I’m still going to shoot them.”</p><p>Tim grins crookedly. “Avoid the head and major organs, please,” he says cheerfully. “And we’ll get along just fine.”</p><p>Jason huffs out a chuckle, and that’s all the encouragement Tim needs before he’s shooting a grapnel and plummeting through the air toward the ground, conscious of the fact that Jason’s following him on his own.</p><p>There’s around twenty guys at the docks, including the sailors hired to bring the load in, and Red Hood smirks to himself as he drops smoothly onto the shipping container in front of them, his boots thudding hard against the metal, guns out and at the ready before he’s even touched down. “Come on now, kiddos,” he crows, relishing the look of pure fear on the men’s faces when they realize that it isn’t Batman who’s crashing their deal. “You didn’t really think you’d get out of this without one of us finding out, did you?”</p><p>Robin approaches from behind, takes out three men with his bo staff before anyone even realizes he’s there too, and Red Hood fires several rounds into the group gathered just below him, grinning fiercely when each bullet hits their intended marks in the shoulders and legs of his targets. “That’s for you, Robin,” he calls as he leaps off of the container toward the next wave of men who are running back toward the ship.</p><p>“Much appreciated,” he hears faintly.</p><p>Red Hood launches himself into the air, grabbing hold of a crane and hauling himself higher so that he can take a running start and dive onto the deck of the boat. He beats three of the men to the chase, and their surprised faces when they see him waiting for them at the top of the ladder are all the encouragement he needs when he kicks them solidly to the bottom.</p><p>There’s a nasty cracking sound from the man closest to him, and Jason wonders idly which bone he’s broken this time. He’s maybe too forceful as he tugs their wrists together and zipties them to the rungs of the ship’s ladder, their arms pulled a bit too high for comfort. “I’d stay down,” he advises, and then he’s up and scanning the docks for Robin.</p><p>The trail of unconscious bodies and cuffed men across the dock tell a clear story, and Jason’s eyes follow it until they land on Robin’s lithe form pummeling the shit out of two guys. He leans his chin into his hand to get a grasp on the situation, and sees four more guys emerging from where the goons had parked their cars, all making a beeline toward Robin. Jason sighs as he gets to his feet and shoots a grapple in their direction, ready to join the fight.</p><p>He starts up a light jog, not concerned about Robin’s ability to handle himself when the other men haven’t reached him yet, and instead focuses on the kid fighting. He realizes quite suddenly that he’s never actually watched Robin fight in person—not like he means it, at least. Sure, he’s got video footage and shoddy CCTV of the new, nimble Robin slide-tackling gangsters and high-kicking Gotham’s most wanted, and he’s certainly been in his fair share of fights <em>with</em> Tim, but now he can’t help but think that the kid’s been holding back on him.</p><p>Which, that would make sense. Tim obviously doesn’t have as many strong opinions as Bruce does about Jason’s irredeemable immorality, so maybe he really isn’t fighting with all he’s got when Red Hood comes at him. Maybe there’s something inside of him that doesn’t want to beat Jason, something that recoils at the thought of hurting his predecessor. Besides, Jason’s already confident that Tim’s a bit of a masochist—because why else would the kid keep their interactions secret, what other reason could there possibly be to explain why Batman hasn’t kicked Jason’s skull in for fucking around with his precious new son?</p><p>All of which to say is, maybe Jason’s been underestimating Tim’s abilities. Because now, as Jason finally gets close enough to join the fight, as he slams the butt of his gun into the jaw of one of Two-Face’s men, hears a crack that’s echoed by the sound that Robin’s staff makes as it connects with another goon’s torso, Jason is seeing why Batman places so much faith in his Robin. The kid’s good.</p><p>He’s not elegant like Dick is, not as forceful as Jason tends to be, but he’s got his own style. The only word Jason can think of to describe it is <em>clean</em>. He swings his leg up in a graceful arc to send teeth flying, posture perfect as he simultaneously uses his staff to swat a pistol out of the closest man’s hold. He ducks easily to avoid bullets, and then suddenly there’s a handful of knives in his grasp that he flings into the midst of the fight with precision, the points finding their marks in the soft flesh of shoulders and across wrists. Guns clatter to the ground amidst yowls of pain.</p><p>It’s a swirling cacophony of precise movement and (almost) perfunctory maneuvers, a blend of pure reaction and practiced strategy, and it’s impressive. Yes, Tim Drake is a special kind of dangerous, a danger that lurks beneath a deceptively innocent smile and luminescent eyes, the kind that doesn’t reveal itself until it’s too late.</p><p>Abruptly, Jason looks up for his next move and realizes that it’s over. Robin is already folding up his staff and sliding it into his holster, face impassive as he surveys the scene before them. In total, they’ve managed to take down close to twenty men, and Jason’s almost surprised when he realizes that Robin has been responsible for the majority of them.</p><p>“You’re good with those knives,” Red Hood huffs, leaning down and yanking a narrow, bat-shaped blade bodily out of the shoulder of a shuddering man at their feet. He proceeds to wipe the blood from the metal onto the goon’s own jacket, and the man groans.</p><p>“You’re such a dick,” Robin says, eyes following his movements.</p><p>Jason grins under his helmet and flicks the knife at Tim, hard and fast. Tim snatches it out of midair and slides it into a compartment in his belt. “Seriously, little bird. Your aim’s better than mine. Now, I like knives, they’ve got their uses, but you just turned it into a goddamn performance art piece.”</p><p>Robin shrugs, kneels to secure another one of the goon’s to the railing. “My aim used to be god-awful. I almost severed a guy’s carotid one time, when I first started. Thing like that only needs to happen once before you decide to never let it happen again.”</p><p>Jason actually fucking laughs, and Robin looks up briefly to shoot him a self-satisfied smirk. “Aren’t you a confident one,” the older man muses.</p><p>Tim drops his gaze, manages to think through the adrenaline and his rapidly beating heart back to the situation they’d been in just before they’d dived into this fight, to his body close against Jason’s and his lips at his ear, and flushes high on the tops of his cheeks. “Not quite,” he mutters.</p><p>Jason’s attention is heavy and full of judgment, and it reminds Tim of Alfred in a way that’s almost scary, even if it’s coming through the helmet and not head-on.</p><p>“Help me finish securing these guys, then I can call it in and we can go home,” Tim changes the subject, says the first thing that comes to mind that will make Jason focus on something other than him. It’s easier to deal with Jason when he isn’t thinking, when he’s too busy moving and fighting and reacting.</p><p>Jason waits a long second before nodding slowly, and his hand moves to his belt to pull out several zipties of his own. “Make it fast,” he warns. “None of these wounds are killing shots by themselves, but some of them might bleed out if you wait too long, and I know how much you dislike that.”</p><p>Tim’s mouth tightens, but he inclines his head in acknowledgement and begins to make his way toward the next closest unconscious thug. Between the two of them, they make quick work of it, and when they’re done Jason hands Tim three more of the knives he’d flung, and Tim pockets them without a response.</p><p>“So, listen,” Jason says conversationally, and Tim tenses without thinking, because he gets the feeling that anything Jason says beginning with words like those aren’t going to be good. “Jesus, calm down,” he snaps. “I meant what I said earlier, I’m not gonna take you up on your misguided proposition for sex.”</p><p>“For Christ’s sake,” Tim mutters, “it wasn’t—”</p><p>“Honestly, you’re so goddamn twitchy,” Jason bites out. “I was just gonna say, I’m fucking starving, and there’s this Thai place right on the edge of Chinatown that I haven’t been to in ages.”</p><p>Tim blinks, at a loss. “And…?”</p><p>Jason looks at him like he’s missing the point. “And I don’t have the kind of funds that you do. So grab your fancy black AmEx and come get some food with me.”</p><p>It takes him longer than he likes before he finally manages to find words to respond to that. “Is the Red Hood asking me out?” is what he finally comes up with.</p><p>He isn’t really surprised when Jason’s hand snakes out and fists in his collar, forcing him onto his tiptoes. “And here I was, just starting to like you,” Jason drawls, not bothering to hide his irritation.</p><p>Tim laughs in his face, and feels a twinge of smugness when Jason’s hands loosen at his collar. “My bike’s parked around the corner. You want a ride?”</p><p>“Hanging onto your skinny ass? No thanks,” Jason snorts. “My bike’s here too. The place is called Jade Palace. Meet me there in twenty.” He starts off in the direction of his ride, and spins at the last minute, calling at Tim’s bike, “And I’m serious about paying! I don’t have a dime to my name!”</p><p>“Not <em>yours</em>, no,” Tim replies, and Jason laughs all the way to the restaurant.</p><p>Tim calls Oracle on the way back to his bike, asks her to wait five minutes before sending the GCPD to his location in Tricorner.</p><p>“Already done, Robin,” the woman replies, her voice scrambled with her customary tech. “Hey, do me a favor, swing by when you’re done with this?”</p><p>Robin swings a leg over his bike, bending down to insert the address of the Thai place into his GPS. “Uh, sure, O,” he replies distractedly. “I’ve got one more thing to take care of before I’m done tonight, but I can come by later.”</p><p>There’s a brief silence on her end that Tim uses to start up his engine, and then she says, subdued, “Of course, Robin. Oracle out.”</p><p>He parks on the third level of a less-than-nice parking deck that he recognizes, shucks the top layers of armor off, everything with the R insignia on it, and peels his domino mask off carefully, finishing his look with an oversized Gotham Knights hoodie that Alfred had given him for his birthday the year before.</p><p>He cuts through an alley to get to the restaurant, peeking at the cracked screen of his phone. Four a.m. Tim really needs to take Alfred’s advice and start eating on a regular schedule. </p><p>He rounds the corner and almost walks into Jason. The man’s arm jerks out on reflex to steady the smaller boy, his hand splayed out across Tim’s arm, covering almost the entire expanse of his shoulder. “Easy there, little bird,” Jason says, his voice raspy from the cigarette in his other hand. He doesn’t let go of Tim as he raises the nicotine to his lips, takes a long, slow drag. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”</p><p>Tim raises an incredulous eyebrow, and plucks Jason’s hand off of his shoulder, side-stepping him to grab the door handle. “Shall we?”</p><p>Jason exhales a lungful of smoke, and leans bodily past Tim to stamp the flame out into a cigarette pole next to the door, his leather jacket brushing against Tim’s knuckles as he does so. He hadn’t changed much, had ditched his upper body armor and the thigh holsters, though Tim has no illusions that the other man isn’t packing something. Even Tim has a handful of knives stuffed in his pocket for just in case. “Lead the way, kid,” he finally says, running a hand through his flyaway helmet hair and brushing Tim’s hand away to open the door, following him inside.</p><p>Somewhat surprisingly, they’re not the only ones with a craving for Thai food at ungodly hours of the morning, and Jason gives the hostess a hard look when she first tries to seat them in the middle of the room next to two other tables of people. “I appreciate my privacy, sweetheart,” he says, his words accompanied by a smile that she sees as flirtatious and Tim sees as dangerous.</p><p>Tim’s feeling much less confident by the time he slides into a corner booth in the back across from Jason, fiddling with his napkin so he doesn’t have to look Jason in the eyes. He hasn’t seen Jason without a hood or a mask often, and it makes him nervous, seeing the other man exposed like this, like the first time he saw Bruce break down. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Luckily, Jason doesn’t seem all that interested in conversation, just leans back in his seat and taps his fingers against the table like he’s got all the time in the world.</p><p>Tim’s almost convinced that they’re going to go the entire meal without saying a word to each other. Then, halfway through his pad thai, Jason’s head jerks up and he stabs an accusing pair of chopsticks at Tim, says through a mouthful of noodles, “Who’s Spoiler?”</p><p>The question comes out of nowhere, and Tim freezes up completely. “Excuse me?” His voice is deadly quiet.</p><p>“I heard the name the other day,” Jason shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like he isn’t boring holes into the side of Tim’s head with the intensity of his gaze. “I was just wondering why no one had introduced us yet.”</p><p>“She isn’t around,” Tim says, and there’s a tone of finality in his voice that Jason promptly ignores.</p><p>“Yeah? She quit?”</p><p>There’s a throbbing in Tim’s head that makes him want to hit something. As if the reporter earlier tonight hadn’t been bad enough. “Not quite.”</p><p>“Then—”</p><p>“She died,” Tim interrupts, and he turns, very fast, to meet Jason’s eyes. He feels cold, feels numb, but his glare is like fire. “She was <em>my</em> replacement, for a little bit. Filled in for me, during a period when I wasn’t around as much. Shoved her way into B’s life, wouldn’t get out, so he just gave up and let her tag along. And then Black Mask tortured her to death.”</p><p>Jason looks unimpressed. “Girlfriend?”</p><p>Tim sucks on his tongue, suddenly unable to find the words to describe what Steph had been to him. Girlfriend, sure, until life had gotten in the way and Batman had gotten in the way, and then there had been the fact that, as it turns out, Tim doesn’t like girls quite as much as he likes boys, though it hadn’t been like Steph hadn’t done anything for him. But she’d always been more than that. Steph had been special. He’d loved her, even if it hadn’t been the way she might have preferred.</p><p>It might have been easier, if he had been <em>in love</em> with her. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as hard. Because people fall in and out of love all the time, but Tim hadn’t been in love with Steph, he’d just loved her, plain and simple. She’d been there for him when no one else had been, when he’d just needed someone to talk to who could understand. And no one really understands, now, what it feels like for Tim. They think it’s romantic, that Steph had been Tim’s first love but that he’d eventually get over it, but this—Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving Stephanie Brown, thinks that would be a disservice to her memory, to stop loving someone who had shone so brightly in life. Why would he want to forget her? She had been amazing.</p><p>Tim doesn’t voice any of his thoughts; he never says things like this out loud. Because, at heart, Tim is a liar: a talented, efficient, damn good liar. He’s been pretending for years, to his parents, his teachers, what few friends he’d managed to collect, anyone who bothered to notice him and ask questions. He spins webs of lies, tangled together but never contradicting each other. He wipes his face clean of emotions and projects what he wants people to see. He hides bruises from being Robin under a sheepish smile and a veneer of charm. He takes his feelings and bottles them tightly into a box in his heart, shoves blurted words down deep where no one can find them. </p><p>He is the master of pretending, better than Bruce, even, because Bruce’s pain defines him, even years later, shines through the cracks of stainless steel bones and sinew, whereas Tim’s pain simmers in his bones, isn’t a sparkle so much as a sluggish dirty red. No one notices Tim’s pain until it’s too late, because blood doesn’t attract attention the way bright reflections do, not until there’s a pool of it on the ground from a wound too wide and too deep to fix.</p><p>But there’s something about this situation, the surrealism of it, sitting in a 24/7 Thai place at four thirty in the morning with Jason Todd, his childhood hero, free of Bruce’s watchful gaze and Dick’s pitying expression and Alfred’s well-meaning monotone, that makes him want to speak the truth, for once in his life.</p><p>He doesn’t go into details; Jason didn’t know Steph, he won’t understand the gravity of Tim’s descriptions, but he understands loss. He doesn’t meet Jason’s piercing dark blue eyes as he says quietly, “She was my best friend. And then one day, she just wasn’t anymore.”</p><p>Jason doesn’t say anything, just continues to look him, gazing without blinking like he thinks he’ll unravel Tim’s soul if he stares long and hard enough, and Tim doesn’t feel like he’s being judged for telling the truth. He doesn’t like to talk about himself, because by doing so he opens himself up to being hurt, but he doesn’t feel like Jason’s going to hurt him over this. He feels exposed, raw like he’s been flayed to the bone, and Jason’s the surgeon who’s sticking his hands inside Tim’s insides and plucking nerves like guitar strings. He finds that he doesn’t necessarily mind the feeling. They lapse back into silence, and for the first time that night, Tim relaxes.</p><p>“Thanks for the food, kid,” Jason finally says, throwing his napkin on top of his demolished plate.</p><p>“You’re paying next time,” Tim says automatically, and he stops himself from wincing at his presumptuous words. <em>Next time</em>.</p><p>Jason fixes him with a cool stare, but says simply, “I’ll catch you later, little bird. Keep yourself out of trouble, yeah? Not everyone in Gotham is as nice as I am.”</p><p>Tim watches as the man stands, adjusts the pistol tucked in his waistband, and swaggers out of the restaurant and into the night, a cigarette in his hands before he’s even outside.</p><p>He doesn’t know what, exactly, but Tim knows that something has changed tonight in their relationship. He can recognize a paradigm shift in his universe when he sees one. He’s not sure where it had happened, but somewhere between the fighting and the flirting and the falling, Jason had turned from his enemy to something else.</p><p>They’re not brothers, because brothers don’t look at each other the way Tim catches Jason looking at him sometimes, all heavy eyes and wanting, and Tim’s always loved his Robin too much not to return the stare. They’re not friends, either, because friends don’t hurt each other like the way that Tim and Jason have hurt each other, the way they’ve clawed the other open with knives and words and whatever weapon works best at the time. But they’re no longer strangers, because Jason knows things about Tim he’s never said out loud to anyone, and Tim’s always been good at empathizing with people he shouldn’t.</p><p>No, for all Tim’s intelligence and calculations and research, he doesn’t know what this is. Interpersonal communication has never been his strongest suit. Oh, he can play the game when he has to, can fake it until he’s blue in the face, but genuine connection isn’t where his strengths lie. And Jason Todd himself only makes everything more <em>confusing</em>.</p><p>Tim sighs out loud, pulls out a wallet and throws some bills on the table, catching one of the other guest’s attention and biting back a ruthless smile when he notices how the man can’t stop staring at his wallet. <em>Do it</em>, Tim thinks. <em>Just try and rob me. Make my night</em>. He feels guilty a second later, because he knows Bruce’s rules, knows he can’t use his skills against people who don’t deserve it, and this man doesn’t deserve Tim slamming his ass into the curb just because he’s desperate for some cash. Instead Tim just ducks into an alley before anyone has a chance to follow him and test his taxed patience.</p><p>It’s a short drive from Chinatown to the Clock Tower in Old Gotham where Oracle makes her home, and Tim takes the time to pull his uniform back on, holding the mask to his face only long enough to get safely within the Tower without being seen before tucking it back into his belt. As he rides the high-powered elevator up to the top floor where Oracle’s base of operations is located, he feels himself relaxing.</p><p>He’s always liked Barbara Gordon, had watched her as Batgirl and worked with her as Oracle, and he respects her more than most of the heroes he’s met. She’s smart, capable, and dangerous, but more than that, she’s strong in a way that Tim can hardly even conceptualize, a weapon of intellect and strategy in any incarnation she chooses. Tim isn’t optimistic enough to believe he can do this forever, and when he (inevitably) can’t physically operate on the ground or above rooftops anymore, he imagines himself in a position similar to Oracle’s; not her replacement, not her duplicate, but another pair of eyes above the city, helping those who fight the good fight the only way he knows how. He hopes he gets the chance.</p><p>“Hey,” he calls as he walks into the main chamber of her setup, gaze skipping automatically over the various storage cabinets and weapon chambers to where Barbara Gordon is sitting in her customary seat front of her computer screens, watching a video.</p><p>Tim strides closer, but stops dead in his tracks when he gets close enough to see what she’s watching, realizing quite suddenly that Barbara <em>knows</em>.</p><p>Because the video she’s watching isn’t a video, it’s surveillance footage, footage of Robin and Red Hood on the docks from just a few hours ago, of them working together, their mouths moving soundlessly as they finish up. Barbara leans forward in her wheelchair to let her fingers skate across the keyboard, and another video pulls up, this time of CCTV footage of the road that Jade Palace is on, of Tim emerging from an alley to stand next to Jason, of Jason’s sharp grin and lingering touches, of him holding the door open for Tim as they enter the restaurant. It looks intimate, close in a way that Tim hadn’t actually realized when it was occurring in real time, and he has the sudden, unbidden desire to cross his arms to protect himself from Barbara’s wordless judgment, but he doesn’t, because he’s <em>Robin</em>, he just stays silent and waits for her to make the first move.</p><p>“You’ve been busy,” she finally says, and Tim wants to hide.</p><p>He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, because it’s <em>Babs</em>. He hasn’t told Bruce about his <em>relationship</em> with Red Hood, but he should have known better than thinking it would be that simple with Oracle, should have foreseen that she’d figure it out all by herself.</p><p>This is inevitable, really; the woman’s got a camera in every inch of Gotham City, and she makes a habit of knowing things no one else does. Tim’s similar, in a way, but he doesn’t care so much about knowing things before others so much as knowing things that he <em>shouldn’t</em>, things no one <em>wants</em> him to know. Oracle is the expert in the comings and goings of Gotham, the information hub of the city, but Robin’s the one to go to for information about the people, about their strengths and weaknesses and best ways to exploit flaws—heroes and villains alike.</p><p>It’s why he’s the one with the Red Hood on his speed dial, and not Batman or Nightwing or even Oracle. Or, at least, why he’s the one who gets sought out when Red Hood comes looking for a chat.</p><p>She’s flipped to a different video now, a grainy image with a bad camera angle, but Tim recognizes the scene anyway, and he can’t stop his sharp inhale of surprise—it’s from the second time Red Hood came looking for him, the one that ended with Jason’s tongue in his mouth and his fingers at his throat.</p><p>He realizes that he desperately doesn’t want her to play that part, not in front of him, that he doesn’t want to see a third-person view of his poor choices. “You know the saying,” he replies, aloof and just a tad too vicious. “All work and no play...”</p><p>She still hasn’t turned around, but he can see her mouth harden into a thin line of displeasure. “He’s dangerous, Tim.”</p><p>“Dick said you never liked him.”</p><p>“I liked Jason just fine,” she retorts sharply. “It’s this version of him that I don’t recognize.”</p><p>“Jason isn’t some random lowlife mobster,” Tim says.</p><p>Barbara almost laughs. “You’re right. He’s well-trained and he’s dangerous and he wants to hurt you. He’s taking advantage, in more ways than one. Just look at what’s on those tapes, Tim – you are too young for the things Jason is willing to do to you.”</p><p>Tim doesn’t speak for a long moment. “It’s not your business, Barbara.”</p><p>She turns around as fast as fucking Flash, eyes sparkling with sudden irritation. “Everything is my business, Tim.”</p><p>“There are a very small number of people that I can talk to about the shit we get up to in this life,” Tim says. “Hood happens to be one of them.”</p><p> “Jason is not a good person anymore,” she says. “He’s not interested in helping you. He just wants to hurt you.”</p><p>Tim stands his ground, moves onto the real question: “Are you planning to tell him?” he asks blankly.</p><p>She hesitates, looks at him like she doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of her. “No,” she finally replies, meeting his gaze steadily. “It’s not my place.”</p><p>He nods, business-like, as though her response is one he’s expected. “Good.” And then he turns and walks away, and he doesn’t fucking look back.</p><p>Barbara stares after him for several seconds before turning back to her screen with a muttered, “Shit.”</p><p>She means what she said – she isn’t going to tell Bruce, because she keeps her word, even when it’s as misguided as this. But she can’t stay silent either.</p><p>A compromise, then.</p><p>She trolls through the CCTV footage she’s collected of Red Hood and Robin’s interactions and ends up selecting the one that documents—she thinks—the pair’s first meeting. There’s no audio, but the images tell a story all by themselves. And then she emails it to Dick Grayson.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Red Hood isn’t actively expecting a visit from Nightwing, but when the man pops the lock on the window of one of the warehouses he’s working out of and slides in, he isn’t really surprised.</p><p>It’s a fight, because of course it is. Everything is a fight where it concerns Batman and his ilk.</p><p>It’s not a long fight, because Nightwing has come here to talk.</p><p>“So what’s his deal, my replacement?” Jason asks conversationally, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. His heartrate is elevated, his breathing still coming a little heavy from the blows, but he’s calm enough for now.</p><p>“What do you mean, his deal?” Dick replies warily, sheathing his escrima sticks. The electricity coursing through his weapon of choice isn’t as effective when Red Hood’s got a few shocks of his own built into his armor.</p><p>Jason rolls his eyes. “His <em>deal</em>. I’ve dealt with him more than a few times now, but I still can’t get a solid read on him. Competent as hell, probably better in the brains department than you and I will ever be, but there’s something off about him.”</p><p>Dick takes a minute to think about what he’s going to say. “It’s like you said. He’s off. He’s got issues. Like the rest of us.”</p><p>A snort. “Well, duh, he’s working for the Bat. That’s not a job for someone who’s <em>well-adjusted</em>. I’m looking for details, here.”</p><p>Dick stares at the man who used to be his little brother, the man who now towers over him like their shared father does, who meets his gaze head-on, a mixture of bored amusement and menacing anger. Dick thinks about the CCTV footage that Barbara had shown him, of Tim’s graceful evasions and Jason’s ceaseless offensive maneuvers, of Tim’s small body slammed into the ground beneath Jason’s bulk, his own bo staff shoved into his throat. He thinks of how easy it is to hate someone you don’t know, how anyone can hurt another person when they don’t think of their victim as a person at all. He thinks maybe it’s a good thing for Jason to conceptualize Tim as a real person, a living sixteen-year old boy who breathes and lives and hurts just like Jason does. </p><p>So Dick answers honestly. “He’s complicated. He started as Robin when his parents were still alive. And he could do that cus they weren’t actually at home paying any attention to him. No one taught him how to be a person. He’s got bad habits, doesn’t take care of himself. He’s good, though, clean. Probably the best mind B has ever picked up.”</p><p>“I knew half of that already,” Jason says. “He doesn’t always choose to hide it.”</p><p>Dick chews on his cheek, sifting through the meaning behind the other man’s words. Obviously the video Barbara had sent him isn’t the only interaction they’ve had, if Jason’s managed to pick up on Tim’s various idiosyncrasies already. He sighs. “Look, I’ve known Tim for a few years now. And I still can’t quite figure out what his triggers are. With everyone else, there’s always something that hurts a little too much, that they don’t want to talk about. Some more than others,” he adds pointedly.</p><p>Jason glowers at him.</p><p>“But Tim? He has no set triggers. There are things he doesn’t like to bring up, but nothing absolute that always prompts a reaction. He blows up over something one day, and a week later the same topic doesn’t even make him blink. He hates talking about himself, especially about feelings, which, I mean, it’s not like B sets a great example there,” Dick adds bitterly. “But Tim refuses to express himself, so you never have any idea if the next thing out of your mouth is going to be the thing that sets him off. It depends entirely no how angry or tired he is at that moment, whether he chooses to hide what he’s feeling or explode instead.”</p><p>“So Batman took an already fucked up kid and made him worse,” Jason muses. “Go figure, huh?”</p><p>That makes Dick backpedal. “Look, I’m not saying he’s a wreck. He’s an incredible Robin, a strong fighter and a better strategist. He makes Batman’s planning look like a joke, sometimes. He’s taken down entire gangs without more than a shred of evidence to start with. He’ll go far one day.”</p><p>Somewhere along the way, Jason’s lit up a cigarette, and he exhales smoke deeply, suddenly angrier than normal at Dick’s words, despite the fact that he’d asked for the information himself. “That boy is a ball full of pain,” he comments.</p><p>Dick pulls a face. “He’s just going through a rough patch right now, so his… <em>issues</em> are closer to the top than normal. He’s getting better, it’s just going to take some time.”</p><p>And that makes Jason laugh, the sound angry and just unhinged enough that Dick’s shoulders tighten. He takes a drag, tries to steady himself before he loses it on Dick again. “You think that kid is coping, that he’s <em>just fine</em>? Next time you talk to him, ask him how he’s dealing with his girlfriend’s death, and if that conversation doesn’t end in a screaming match I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”</p><p>The words Dick had been planning to say die in his throat.</p><p>Jason looks triumphant. “Do me a favor, get that kid some goddamn therapy before he gets himself killed on the job. Or,” he adds as the next thought occurs to him, “before he snaps and kills someone else.”</p><p>"Tim isn't a killer," Dick scoffs, like the idea is ludicrous. "He's <em>Robin</em>."</p><p>"Kid like that? Smart, strategic, ambitious? He's not gonna mope around as Batman's sidekick forever. What do you reckon he's gonna do, when he finally decides to strike out on his own? <em>Knit</em>?”</p><p>The problem, Dick decides, is that he kind of sees Jason's point. He can understand how someone could look at Tim, look at the tightly wound shoulders and ruthless control, and see a man who could be so much worse. He thinks that's what Ra's al Ghul sees, when he gazes at Tim: someone who has the true potential to follow in his footsteps, someone who just needs a little push.</p><p>Dick gets it. It doesn't mean he has to like it, or listen to Jason's smug voice talk about it like he knows Tim. Jason may have been around Tim enough at this point to have a vague idea about who he is, which Dick also isn't particularly happy about it, but Jason has no concept whatsoever about who Tim Drake is. He didn’t know Tim before, before he entered Bruce Wayne's life and refused to leave, when he was still too scrawny and eager and passionate about justice. That kid would never do the things Jason wants. But even Dick can’t deny that Tim’s changed in the past two years, that he’s not the same person he was when he first showed up at Dick’s apartment, scared out of his mind but determined to do the right thing. To help pick up the pieces of Batman that Jason’s death had caused.</p><p>“He’s a special kid, Jay, and he’s trying” Dick says – but Jason’s expression has gone murderous at the use of that nickname, and he isn’t listening anymore.</p><p>“Get the fuck out,” he seethes. “Get the fuck out, and pray I don’t come looking for you later.”</p><p>“I mean it,” Dick says, out the window before Jason has time to reach for a gun. “Be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>“I googled you,” Jason informs Tim as he drops down on the roof beside him, not bothering to say hello.</p><p>“Yeah?” Tim replies, shoveling another forkful of chicken lo mein into his mouth. He’s not sure when he stopped being surprised by the Red Hood’s impromptu visits.</p><p>“Yep. Timothy Jackson Drake. Sixteen years old. Smart kid; you graduated high school early. Mother—deceased for over a year. Father—recently deceased. Adopted by billionaire Bruce Wayne after said death of father. I assume you were working as my replacement long before your parents kicked the bucket, of course. You’ve got quite a resume, <em>Tim</em>.”</p><p>Tim doesn’t react, <em>won’t</em> react. “So now you know me as well as I know you. Congratulations.”</p><p>Jason laughs savagely. “You don’t know me, kid. The Bat’s files can’t tell you everything.”</p><p>Tim raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and carefully sets his takeout box on the ledge beside him. If Jason decides to fight him, Tim is sure as hell not wasting the seven dollars he spent on his sinfully delicious dinner. “What makes you think I get all my info from B?”</p><p>“You been stalking me?” Jason hums, leaning casually against the side of the wall. “Like what you see?”</p><p>“No one explained to you how I came to be your replacement?” Tim probes.</p><p>Jason’s silent, and the air goes a little colder.</p><p>Tim licks his lips, takes a minute to decide whether or not he actually wants to go down this road. He isn’t sure how the man will react, is never sure, but there’s something in the back of his brain that just <em>itches</em> to prove himself. A not-apology for taking his place; proof that he’s earned this. “I knew you as Robin,” Tim admits. “I was eleven. Wandered all over Gotham taking pictures of you and Batman, and of Dick. I still have them somewhere. You looked good in that costume.”</p><p>Jason’s quiet for a minute. “I had a chat with Dickie-bird about you,” he offers up in return, and Tim’s surprised; he’d been expecting a far more vitriolic response to that particular confession. “He told me a lot of <em>interesting</em> things.”</p><p>“You mean Google couldn’t tell you everything you wanted to know?” Tim shoots back, and he’s surprised at the amount of venom in his own voice.</p><p>The look the other man gives him is sharp, but not overly cruel. It surprises Tim. “You don’t really strike me as the kind of guy who lets anyone see him. Certainly not the press.”</p><p>“They’re vultures,” Tim mutters. “Always looking for weaknesses, for any chance to make you slip up and confess to shit you don’t want to talk about. As if spilling secrets about my home life is going to make me feel <em>better</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah, I never got used to them either,” Jason says, his voice twisting with something that sounds oddly like sadness. He meanders over to Tim, finally closing the distance between them, and settles down on the ledge next to him, close enough that their legs touch. Tim resists the urge to knock his legs against Jason’s, instead lets them dangle over the open air beside him. “Dick said your parents were assholes. You’re really gonna tell me you miss them?”</p><p>Tim’s glare is hard. “Since when do you take Dick’s word as the gospel truth?”</p><p>Jason reaches behind Tim, the sleeve of his jacket catching on the back of Tim’s belt, to grab the box beside him. “He seemed to know an awful lot about you,” Jason replies, unperturbed. He shoves a spring roll into his mouth, talking around the food. “And, I hate to tell you, but his stories add up. You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that? There are all sorts of crossed wires in your pretty little head.”</p><p>Tim goes still. “Are you here to talk about my <em>feelings</em>, Jason?”</p><p>“I’m in a good mood, don’t ruin it,” Jason warns.</p><p>“My parents are dead, there’s no reason to talk about it,” Tim says shortly. “Not with you, not with Dick, not with anyone. Besides, it’s not like dead parents are anything new for us. If nothing else, I’m finally a part of the majority.” He prods Jason’s thigh, and the man gets the hint, handing the food back over to Tim. Tim can’t feel anything through the gauntlets, but his heart flutters at the brush of leather anyway.</p><p>Jason shifts beside him, and Tim watches with hooded eyes as the man pulls his helmet off, revealing his face, eyes hidden by the ever-present domino mask. He settles the helmet beside him, and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette.</p><p>Tim pulls a face. “C’mon, man, I’m gonna smell like smoke for hours if you light that thing.”</p><p>“Ask me if I give a shit, Replacement.”</p><p>He scoffs, but his lips turn up just a little in amusement.</p><p>They sit in silence for a while, long enough that Jason burns through two cigarettes and Tim manages to polish off his dinner.</p><p>“We might all be orphans, but B and Dickie-bird had very different childhoods than we did,” Jason finally says, his voice rough from the smoke. “Golden Boy told me all about your little sob story. And if I know anything about you by now, I know you’ve hacked the file B has on me.”</p><p>Tim spares him a glance. “Your mugshot is cute. You’ve got the same scowl.”</p><p>“I was fourteen, the last time I had one of those taken,” Jason says idly. “It was <em>after</em> B adopted me. Should have seen his face. I think he was more disappointed then, than he was when he realized I’d come back to life a bad guy.”</p><p>Tim doesn’t reply. Of course he’s hacked Jason’s files. It had been one of the first things he’d done as Robin, had wanted to know everything he possibly could about his heroes, about the boy whose name Bruce refused to say out loud, the shadow that followed him around no matter how tall he tried to stretch, the Jason-shaped hole in their lives that never seemed to disappear.</p><p>He knows all about Jason’s childhood. Jason is the son of a low-level mobster father who liked to hit his strung-out mother. He hadn’t had a good life even when his parents were around, before his dad was in jail and his mom was dead. Jason had done what he had to do, had been caught for carjacking and robbery and solicitation, had run away from every group home he’d ever been sent to, had a rap sheet and an attitude long before Bruce found him.</p><p>He’s read Bruce’s notes on the boy, about his various idiosyncrasies. He knows that Jason had wandered through the Manor like a shadow, sticking to the dark corners, only speaking when spoken to, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knows that Jason ate like he thought he was never going to see another meal again, had stolen food from the pantry and created a verifiable bunker in his closet. He knows that there’s video footage of Jason staying up all night in the library, of Jason shaking in his bedroom with his arms wrapped around himself.</p><p>He knows from personal experience that Bruce isn’t the best with emotions, probably had never realized the extent to which he’d scared Jason, the street kid that no one cared about. He knows that kids like Jason don’t expect kindness for free, that Jason had spent many a sleepless night in the Manor staring at his closed bedroom door, too scared to lock it despite how much he’d wanted to, waiting for Bruce to decide to come in and take what he wanted, and that Jason would have probably given in without a fight, because you don’t bite the hand that feeds you, even if the hand isn’t always kind.</p><p>He knows that trauma does strange things to a person, that it’s affected Jason just the same as it has him, and Dick, and Bruce, that they’ve all suffered and screamed, that none of them have come out whole.</p><p>“B wiped my record from the GCPD’s database, of course,” Jason continues. “Or, more likely, he had Oracle do it. Can’t leave any traces. No DNA. The only proof I ever existed is my death certificate.”</p><p>Tim can’t place the emotions in Jason’s voice. There’s bitterness, for sure, but under that is a sort of keening sadness, something deep and solid, something that’s been festering for a long time. And if someone had asked Tim weeks ago if he ever thought he’d have a conversation like this, eating Chinese food on a rooftop with the Red Hood, he’d have taken them to Arkham. Yet here he is, and he honestly isn’t that surprised right now, because he gets this, in a way. Jason’s alone in the world, has been since he was a kid, and Tim’s the same way. They’re two lonely boys, bound together forever through a man who prefers his first son to them. Yeah, Tim gets it. It doesn’t make it easier.</p><p>Jason’s still talking, and Tim has a feeling that Jason hasn’t talked to anyone about this in a very long time, if ever. “Talia burned my fingerprints off,” the man beside him continues. “I asked her to; I couldn’t quite do it to myself, but I wanted them gone.”</p><p>“Why?” Tim’s voice is barely above a whisper.</p><p>“Practicality. I didn’t want anyone to trace me back to the boy that’s supposed to be buried.”</p><p>Tim believes that, but he’s damn sure it’s about more than that, too. Sure, Jason’s a dead man walking, and if anyone figured it out, it’d be a hassle for everyone involved. But he has a feeling the decision was fueled by something deeper than that, a self-destructive desire to sever all strings to the boy Jason used to be, the boy that was Robin. Jason can call Tim a control freak all he wants (and he can’t really argue with that assessment, honestly), but Jason’s the same way, sometimes. He’s reluctant to be tied down to anything that might force him to be something he doesn’t want to be. He can respect that.</p><p>“They didn’t abuse me. My parents. They were just—they were like ghosts,” Tim says, and his eyes stay locked on the cityscape in front of him, even when he can feel Jason’s attention on him. “They weren’t around. They didn’t know me. I spent my childhood doing everything I could to make them <em>see</em> me. It didn’t matter if it was good or bad, as long as they acknowledged that I was real.”</p><p>He doesn’t know why he’s talking. He doesn’t know why the only time he decides to open up it’s with Jason Todd, of all people. He doesn’t know why Jason’s listening. But once the words begin spilling out, he’s having a damn hard time stopping the tide.</p><p>“Eventually I got old enough that I realized I was chasing the unattainable. I accepted that. But it still <em>hurt</em>when they died. Because I knew that… well, I was always a disappointment to them. If they’re dead, how am I supposed to know whether I could ever been <em>more</em>?”</p><p>“Sounds to me like they were awful people,” Jason says flatly.</p><p>“They were my parents,” Tim mutters.</p><p>Jason makes an angry noise. “Fuck that. Shitty parents exist. There are awful people in the world, and they don’t become less awful just because they forget how to use a goddamn condom. Disappointment goes both ways. You’re allowed to hate them, even if it’s just a little, and fuck anyone who tells you otherwise. Not everyone deserves to be mourned.”</p><p>Tim bites his lip. “I loved my parents. They weren’t—they weren’t bad people. They just weren’t good ones either. I miss—I don’t know, I guess what we could have been. The wasted potential of a family.”</p><p>“Family is overrated,” Jason says, and he’s angry again, despite himself.</p><p>“No,” Tim says slowly, and he thinks of Bruce, and Alfred and Dick, thinks about Steph and Kon, the rest of the Titans, all of the people who will never share his blood but he’d lay his life down for. “You can make your own family. You don’t have to stay chained to a bad one.”</p><p>“Not everyone gets the luxury of starting over,” Jason says blandly.</p><p>“Says the phoenix, re-born from the ashes.” Tim makes a move to get up, and Jason’s hand shoots out, closes around his wrist and yanks him back down, jostling Tim enough that he curses as he tries to regain his balance. “I do still have to finish patrol, Hood,” he says softly.</p><p>The man doesn’t say anything, just tugs harder, and Tim settles into a crouch simply to keep himself from falling.</p><p>“Jason,” Tim says again. “I—”</p><p>“Come on, Tim,” he interrupts, and when he looks up, Tim can see that he’s turned the lenses off of his mask, looks at him with blue eyes like hunks of sapphire, dark where Tim’s are chips of ice. “Just—Gotham can survive another twenty minutes without Robin. It definitely doesn’t need the Red Hood.”</p><p>And Tim hates the feeling in his chest, hates that Jason has his hold over him, hates that Jason can hit him and choke him and come damn near to killing him, and Tim is still willing to let him get this close. Because he can’t forget Robin, can’t forget how much the two boys meant to him when he was eleven years old and lonely and just looking for something to latch onto. He’s still looking for that, for purpose, even now that he’s joined them, because deep down he’s that same boy. And deep down, Jason is too.</p><p>So Tim nods, and he unfolds his legs and lets them dangle over the edge of the rooftop once more, doesn’t move when Jason shifts so that their sides are touching. Jason’s leaning back, his weight braced on his arms, and Tim is hunched forward to peer into the city, and sitting so close next to each other it’s easy to look at them and think it’s something it isn’t. It’s so easy to forget about their shared history, the blood spilled between them, the insults screamed through shattered teeth. It’s easy to sit next to Jason and just <em>be</em>. He doesn’t have to hide. He doesn’t have to pretend. All he has to do is keep breathing. And that—that Tim can do.</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>“A big bird told me you’ve been talking about me behind my back,” Tim says lightly, not looking up from the massive computer screen in the Cave.</p><p>Dick freezes from where he’s trying to creep toward the door. “You talked to Jason?” he asks, his voice clearly disbelieving. “And it was civil?”</p><p>Tim makes a noncommittal noise. “I wouldn’t say it’s always civil. But we chat sometimes. Not about my <em>issues</em>, because apparently that’s your domain.” His tone is pleasant, but Dick isn’t fooled. Tim could be boiling angry, and you’d never know it from his voice.</p><p>“Jason—“</p><p>“After your conversation with him, Jason thought I was a traumatized teenager who was abused as a child,” Tim interrupts, and, yes, Dick can hear the anger now.</p><p>Dick raises a deeply unimpressed eyebrow. “You were.”</p><p>There’s a sharp inhale through his nose. “For the last time,” he says, deadly quiet, “My parents did <em>not</em> abuse me.”</p><p>“Child neglect is a form of abuse,” Dick replies. They’ve had this argument many times.</p><p>“I am the first to admit that my parents did not do the best job at raising me,” Tim hisses. “But they did not <em>abuse</em> me.”</p><p>Dick is tired. He is exhausted and soaking wet from the relentless Gotham rain, and he’s emotionally drained from dealing with all of the constant family drama, and he would really like to just take a nap for fourteen hours. So he has an excuse, he’ll tell himself later, for snapping. “When you first started being Robin, we thought your Dad was hitting you for real,” he says abruptly. “You were too small and skinny and you jumped when we touched you. You remember that? I have this vivid memory of, like, tousling your hair when I walked by, and you decked me.”</p><p>“Stop it, Dick,” Tim says, and there’s something hard in his voice that reminds Dick a lot of Bruce.</p><p>He plows on. “It was like Jason all over again, only we couldn’t understand why, because Jason had been living on the streets and doing what street kids did, and you were a Drake, you lived in a <em>mansion</em>. But you would do some of the same things Jason did; he used to hoard food, too, when he first came here, just like you. You both stole boxes of granola bars and cereal and hid them in your sock drawers. It was <em>insane</em>.”</p><p>“Jason thought Bruce had adopted him as his personal sex slave for weeks, right up until the moment Bruce revealed he was Batman, and he finally understood the real reason,” Tim says flatly.</p><p>Dick’s next breath is a little too sharp. “He tell you that?”</p><p>“He didn’t really have to,” Tim replies cryptically. He breaks eye contact for the first time. “What Jason went through with his family, and when they died—<em>that</em> was abuse. My parents left me on my own in a house with a credit card and a pantry full of food. The worst thing they did to me was made me feel unwanted. But no one ever touched me. Maybe you should think about that when you start telling everyone who asks that I’m a victim.”</p><p>And Dick stares, just stares and stares and stares, and Tim knows that this isn’t over yet. “You can’t keep doing this, Tim,” Dick says, and he sounds so… sad. Weary. Exhausted. Like he’s tired of repeating himself, tired of saying the same things that continue to fall on deaf ears.</p><p>Tim knows what that feels like; he’s tired of listening.</p><p>“You’re going to run yourself into the ground,” Dick finishes, eyes hooded.</p><p>“What else is there to do, Dick?” Tim sighs. It’s not a question. Not one that they have answers to, anyway.</p><p>“I’m serious,” he growls. “If you keep it up, I’ll talk with Bruce, get him to bench you. This isn’t healthy.”</p><p>Tim laughs like a whip, sharp and loud and brittle, like he could crack. “Sure thing, because that will make me feel <em>so</em> much better. Nothing makes an angry vigilante feel more at peace like being locked in a cage.”</p><p>Dick flinches. Tim can’t even bring himself to feel bad for his cruel words. “You’re not the only one who has been through this. I’ve been there. Bruce has definitely been there. You don’t have to go through it alone.”</p><p>His eyes flash. “You’re forgetting a brother.”</p><p>“Jason isn’t—”</p><p>“You don’t get to discount his existence just because it’s inconvenient for you,” Tim snaps. “He is <em>valid</em>, just like the rest of us.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean he’s good for you,” Dick says, growing louder. “He’s messed up, but his problem is that he doesn’t even want to try and get better. He thinks the pain is good, that it <em>fuels</em> him, that it’s <em>useful</em>. That’s not the kind of influence you need in order to get beyond this.”</p><p>And Tim—he is so sick of this argument, sick of going around in the same circles they always do. Dick, the eternal optimist, and Tim, forever a realist. They don’t see the world the same way, they probably never will, and Tim is a little too down to try and understand Dick’s view right now. “Maybe he’s right,” he says quietly, not meeting Dick’s eyes. “At least when I’m angry, when I’m Robin, I’m not feeling so goddamn <em>sad</em> all the time. There’s something else to focus on.”</p><p>“Tim—”</p><p>“Jason doesn’t ask about that stuff,” Tim interrupts, finally looking up again. “He doesn’t make me talk about Steph, or Kon, or my dad, or what’s going on in my head. He doesn’t… We compare case files and patrol and I tell him not to kill anyone and sometimes he actually listens and just shoots out kneecaps. I don’t have to think about anything except the work, and he doesn’t have to take the world on all by himself.  It’s not—it’s not a <em>bad</em>arrangement, Dick. It works.”</p><p>“He tried to <em>kill</em> you, Tim,” Dick says urgently, trying to make the younger boy understand. “Not just once. Multiple times.”</p><p>“He hasn’t in awhile,” Tim says, because there isn’t a lot he can in defense of that. Jason <em>has</em> tried to kill him. But he hadn’t <em>really</em> been trying since he’d come back. “People change.”</p><p>“I’ve seen the CCTV of you and him,” Dick presses. “Oracle showed me. He’s not—that isn’t acceptable behavior.” </p><p>“We <em>hurt</em> people, Dick,” Tim snarls, angry again. “All we <em>do</em> is hurt people. It’s who we are. People who deserve it, sure, but the world isn’t quite that black and white. We don’t stop being lethal just because we’re not wearing a mask. Are you really surprised that there’s spillover?”</p><p>“Do you think I don’t know what that’s like?” Dick demands. “I was Robin first, you know. When I started, there was no precedent, no one to tell me what I should do or how I should act. At least you have some sort of prior experience to rely on!”</p><p>Tim surges forward and spits, “You’ve had years to get better. The rest of us—I am nowhere close to being <em>okay</em>. It’s going to take me a long time before I feel like a human being again. Do you understand that? I am tired of losing the people that I love, I am tired of making new friends only to go to their fucking funerals a year later. I am tired of you looking at me like I’m about to shatter into a million pieces. I am not okay, Dick, but this is how I’m getting better. I’m going to work my cases so I don’t have to think, and patrol when I feel so full I could burst, and I’m going to work with Jason Todd until the minute he or I decide that the relationship isn’t going to work anymore. I may not be an <em>adult</em> like you and Bruce, but I’m a <em>Robin</em>, and that’s good enough.” </p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Tim is surprised when he gets stabbed, in an almost comical way, and he thinks dazedly, <em>Lucky shot</em>, when he feels the slide of a knife against his shoulder. It’s a sharp pain that makes him blink, makes his vision clearer, focuses him, pulls him out of that subspace of his head where he doesn’t feel anything. He can’t see it, but it’s enough to tear through the reinforced material of his uniform, enough that he lets out an involuntary growl. He elbows the offending man in the face so hard that he hears a crack, and then suddenly there’s a lot more blood on the floor besides his own.</p><p>The pain is searing, and he’s thinking that maybe it’s a more serious wound than he’d originally thought as he takes the last two men down, zip-tying them to one of the few sturdy-looking pipes in the alleyway, and then he’s running. He takes convoluted turns and vaults rooftops for maybe a quarter of a mile, finally deeming it safe to pause and do a self-examination.</p><p>He leans heavily against the ledge of a roof, sliding down until he’s seated, and cranes his neck to try and get a look at the searing scratch across his shoulder blade. He’s right; it’s worse than he’d thought. It’s definitely more substantial than his first impression, shallow around the edges but too deep in the middle, and it’s oozing blood at a fast pace, soaking wetly into the surrounding fabric. “Damn,” he mutters, and rummages in his belt for medical supplies, grimacing in expectation for the messy task ahead.</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>Red Hood has just finished gathering information from a mob meeting—i.e., shooting kneecaps until someone was willing to talk to him—and he’s taking a break before jumping back into the night, helmet off, trying to stop the wind from extinguishing his cigarette. It’s nearly impossible at such a high altitude, but he wants to <em>smoke</em>, goddamn it, and he’s going to do it.</p><p>There’s the sound of a body landing heavily on one of the nearby roofs, and he holds his inhale in as he listens, pinpointing it to the one slightly to the right of him. He almost laughs when he sees who it is; he doesn’t, instead just exhales thoughtfully.</p><p>Robin doesn’t look good; he’s walking awkwardly, hunched over, clearly injured. He looks around, appears to judge his rooftop as safe (<em>a mistake</em>, Jason thinks languidly), and almost collapses on the ground. Jason watches for another few minutes, showing no interest in moving, until he sees the kid sigh, his shoulders heaving up. And then the kid’s shucked off his gauntlets, disarmed his armor, and pulled the top half of his uniform off, leaving him in just a long-sleeved red under shirt that’s molded to his every muscle, minus the gaping hole in the back where blood is still seeping.</p><p>Jason’s moving before he even thinks about it, barely taking the time to grind out his cigarette before he’s landing on the same rooftop as Robin, and the kid looks up, eyes hard and ready for a fight, before he realizes who it is. In his hands he’s holding a tiny excuse for a needle and a small spool of thread, and Jason takes in the wound on his shoulder, a stab wound that, yeah, definitely needs stitches.</p><p>“Were you really about to stitch yourself up right here on the fucking roof?” Jason blurts before he can think about what he’s saying.</p><p>The kid gapes at him, surprise mingling with a wariness that Jason’s objectively proud of having caused. “Hood?”</p><p>Jason’s suddenly right in front of him, quick like he hadn’t even moved, and Tim stumbles backward, his heel brushing the base of the wall. “You didn’t even wash it first. I <em>know</em> that the Bat taught you better than that.” Tim doesn’t respond. Jason leans forward even closer and snatches the spool out of his hand, examining it closely. “Jesus, is this <em>dental floss</em>?”</p><p>“What? No, of course not. Besides, I don’t exactly have a ton of options!” Tim’s brain has finally caught up with the situation, and it’s chosen to pursue a reaction of righteous indignation. “There isn’t a safe house any closer than the Cave, and this needs to get sewn up now, before it gets worse.”  </p><p>“What’d you do?” Hood asks lazily, and then he’s spinning Tim around and his hand is <em>right there</em>, and he’s prodding at Tim’s shoulder, gaze clinical as he examines the cut.</p><p>Tim’s smile is sharp. “Got in a fight with a bad guy.”</p><p>Jason snorts at him. “Get the fuck up kid, I’ll take you somewhere and patch you up. You’ll be back to following the Bat’s every word in no time.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” He’s not expecting this; nothing about this interaction so far is something that he’s come to expect from the Red Hood. Jason likes to throw him around, get in his space, intimidate him with his sheer size and his pointed insults. Jason doesn’t do things like chide him for not cleaning his wounds or offer to <em>fix</em> him.</p><p>The other man rolls his eyes, and in a sudden instant, has grabbed Tim by his un-injured shoulder and pulled him close to his side, not unkindly, managing despite the odds not to brush against the mess on his back. “We’re right on the edge of my territory, I’ve got a place nearby. It has disinfectant and liquor, and I’ve got real fucking thread for stitches.”</p><p>“What the hell?” Tim demands, squirming, but Jason’s hold is tight and he’s finding it surprisingly difficult to move. “What is your <em>problem</em>?”</p><p>Jason bends with remarkable dexterity to grab the discarded Robin shirt on the ground, and hands it to Tim, who, dumbfounded for the first time in a long while, just takes it from him. “Hold tight, or I’ll drop you over the roof,” he warns, and then he’s clutching Tim even tighter, sandwiching him against the ridiculously firm expanse of his chest. He swings a leg over the ledge and scales his way down the fire escape until he’s on the same level as the neighboring building before leaping the few feet until he lands on its rooftop. Tim feels like he’s in a dream, but he clings tight to Jason’s shoulder and doesn’t say a damn word while the Red Hood carries him across the city.</p><p>It doesn’t take all that long before Jason’s stopping, finally letting Tim’s feet rest on the ground again so that he can jiggle at a locked window. It seems to take longer than Tim would think, and he peers over the man’s broad shoulders to get a look at the complex alarm system that Jason is in the process of rewiring.</p><p>“Is that an actual bomb attached?” he asks. There isn’t a shred of judgment in his tone, just genuine curiosity.</p><p>Jason spares a glance up. “This is only the first line of defense. In case, ya know, you think you might wanna visit any of my other places.” The threat is clear.</p><p>Tim shrugs nonchalantly, gritting his teeth when the casual motion jars the injury on his back.</p><p>After another moment, Jason is sliding the window open roughly, ducking through with a surprising amount of grace, considering his size, and almost pulling Tim in after him. He has to scramble to make sure Jason’s tugging doesn’t smash his head against the windowsill.</p><p>It’s not a great apartment, but, then, Park Row isn’t the best part of town. The room is half empty, and most of the actual possessions seem to be packed into bags and boxes already. The only thing in the living room is a beat-up old sofa and a coffee table with a sniper rifle sitting on top of it.</p><p>“Cozy,” Tim huffs as Jason finally relaxes his hold.</p><p>“I’m in the process of moving,” the other man explains, shucking off his leather jacket and placing his helmet onto a shelf by the door. “Only reason you’re here, and not bleeding out on a rooftop.” He lifts a large red metal box onto the kitchen counter, flipping the lid to reveal a sizeable medical supply. “C’mere, kid, I’ll get you cleaned up.”</p><p>His movements are a little twitchy as he hops onto the counter beside Jason, automatically stripping away the tattered remains of the shirt he wears under his armor. He shivers as the cold air hits his overheated skin. “I’m hardly bleeding out,” he retorts, bundling up the shirt and tossing it in the general vicinity of a trashcan.</p><p>Jason’s silent, and Tim looks down, automatically tensing for a fight, to see the other man’s eyes glued to his naked chest. Tim’s a decent fighter, but bruises and scrapes are a dime a dozen in their world, especially when he has to go up against someone physical like Killer Croc instead of Two-Face or Penguin, who prefer to fight with long-distance weapons. As a result, he’s a little banged up, covered in bruises all in various states of healing; there’s a lot of red and pink around his chest, a nasty purple one that lingers on his abdomen where he got kicked, and a white bandage wrapped around his left wrist and up his forearm to his elbow.</p><p>There’s also a hell of a lot of evidence of previous mistakes; jagged white scars, long-since healed, and newer pink ones that cross his chest in odd patterns and twists, proof that he has survived. Tim doesn’t mind the scars, but he knows that they’re unexplainable to the public, so he keeps them hidden under long dress shirts and demure smiles.</p><p>“J—Hood,” Tim says, catching himself just in time to not say the other man’s name. “I <em>am</em> still bleeding. All over myself, and your countertop. Do you… mind?”</p><p>Jason’s gaze snaps up, and Tim tenses noticeably when he sees anger in them for the first time that night. “You need better armor,” he growls, and paces across the kitchen for a rag. “I don’t care if you get hit with a semi-truck, no partner of Batman should look like that.”</p><p>A wave of shock rides through Tim because, while Jason’s tone is anything but friendly, the words betray a certain level of <em>concern</em> for Tim’s wellbeing. He’s not used to that, he finds, from anyone—but especially not from Jason.</p><p>He doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Jason’s shoving a bottle of vodka at him, and then he’s wiping a wet rag at the jagged cut on his back, and Tim is hissing through his teeth because the touch isn’t particularly gentle. Against his better judgment, he takes a long gulp, and the liquid burns his throat, settles hot in his stomach. “Jesus,” he exhales, coughing just a little, before he downs another gulp.</p><p>“Lightweight,” Jason teases, his fingers deftly tapping against the scrape. Tim feels a cold flash on his skin, and then Jason’s warning, “Don’t fucking move, now, I’m already not the best at this,” and then there’s a needle inside of him and Tim bites his cheek.</p><p>It takes another two stitches before Tim can get used to the feeling again, and he feels a surge of resentment at himself; it had been a long time since he’d messed up badly enough to need stitches. “I’m only sixteen, you know,” Tim grumbles, to distract himself. “I hardly should be used to drinking.”</p><p>Jason’s hand stills against him at the words. “I’m about to turn nineteen,” he mutters, subdued, and this time Tim is the one to freeze up. Because he forgets, sometimes, that this big, angry man in front of him is only just over two years older than him, is barely an adult himself. He’s packed a lot of life into a short period of time, and his whirlwind of emotions and lethal nature make him seem older, make him seem more like a monster than a sad kid.</p><p>They sit in silence for several minutes, Tim wincing when Jason accidentally pulls the thread too tight, and then Jason says, tone reeking with self-satisfaction, “There we go, little bird. Not as pretty as Alfred’s are, but I’ve never been a world-class artist. Shouldn’t be too bad, though you’ll probably add another scar to your impressive collection.” He takes the bottle from Tim’s hand, downs a swallow, and then sloshes some over Tim’s back. “Disinfectant.” </p><p>Tim cranes his neck, takes in the small, evenly spaced stitches holding the torn flaps of his skin together. It burns, from the pain, from the alcohol, but it’s not bleeding anymore. “Thanks,” he says cautiously.</p><p>Jason tapes a piece of gauze carefully over the injury, his fingers brushing against the edge of Tim’s shoulder blade when he does. Tim shivers. “Why are you always alone, little bird?” the man asks, his breath ghosting against Tim’s ear. “I’ve heard the spiel, Batman needs a Robin, et cetera, et cetera. But every time I come across you, he’s never fucking with you, is he?”</p><p>He’d been shockingly tame while taking care of Tim, and so Tim knows he should have expected something like this, but he’s still surprised when Jason’s line of questioning turns aggressive, even as his tone remains calm. “I can take care of myself now,” Tim replies, not turning to look at Jason, even though it makes him extremely nervous to have his back to the man, now that he doesn’t seem to be as concerned about keeping Tim from bleeding. “He doesn’t need to be with me all the time anymore. And, I mean, two is better than one, right?”</p><p>Jason laughs, and it’s one of those excruciating laughs, the ones that promise violence and terror. “You can take care of yourself, huh? Then why are you sitting in <em>my</em> safe house, probably missing a pint of blood, with <em>my</em>stitches in your skin?”</p><p><em>A territory dispute</em>, Tim thinks distastefully. And he’s the territory. “Like you’ve never gotten in over your head,” he snaps, and, <em>oops</em>.</p><p>There are fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, avoiding the damaged skin but only barely.</p><p>He arches his back away from the touch, hisses, “Jesus <em>Christ</em>, Jason!”</p><p>“You look like someone took a baseball bat to you,” Jason continues, like Tim had never said a word. “That’s a knife wound, which you probably got dealing with gangs, because I hear you’re <em>good</em> at that sort of thing, so it’s not like some meta got a hold of you. You’re <em>sixteen</em>, you’re not a soldier. You need someone to watch your back. That’s what Batman’s supposed to do. It goes both ways. He’s not supposed to desert his Robin.” </p><p>And Tim realizes, quite suddenly, Jason isn’t mad at him. Jason’s furious, to be sure, but all of that anger is directed at Bruce, at the man who couldn’t save Jason, wouldn’t avenge him, and now refuses to accept him. The man who abandoned one Robin even after he clawed his way back to life, and now is ignoring the next one.</p><p>“He does his best,” Tim whispers, and Jason swats the back of his head, hard.</p><p>“He doesn’t get a trophy for failing,” the man snarls. </p><p><em>How poetic</em>. Tim isn’t sure who Batman is supposed to be failing in this situation: him or Jason. He finds that he really doesn’t actually want to know the answer.</p><p>“I don’t wanna fucking talk about Bruce,” Tim says. It’s the first time he’s said the real name aloud between them, and it makes Jason twitch, but he perseveres. “Whatever you have is between you and him, just like whatever we have is between you and me.”</p><p>Whatever it is they have.</p><p>The thing is, Tim is either always too full or always too empty. He either feels too much, so much he thinks he’ll burst the seams of his skin, or he’s so cold he thinks he could fade into nothing in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t know which is worse, being jumpy and wired and twitchy and overflowing, or distant and vacant and unconsciously going through the motions.</p><p>But Jason cuts him down to the middle, pulls him out of the fog or the bright light, whichever applies, and gives him something to focus on. Focus on <em>Jason</em>, because Jason is present and in his face and refuses to be ignored, and Tim needs something like that.</p><p>“I make up my mind about whether I want to hurt you every time I see you,” Jason admits.</p><p>“But you haven’t hurt me in a while now,” Tim points out. <em>Not badly</em>, goes unsaid.</p><p>“Yeah. What the fuck am I supposed to think about that, huh?”</p><p>Tim smirks darkly. “Maybe you’re starting to like me.”</p><p>Jason’s laugh is bitter, pitying, warm – all at once. It makes Tim feel things. “Kid, you wanna self-destruct—I get it, and I’m not gonna stop you. But you’re sure as shit not gonna use me as the weapon of choice to do it.”</p><p>Tim raises an eyebrow. “I’m not suicidal,” he says incredulously.</p><p>“Not actively,” Jason allows. “But I’d bet all the money under my mattress that if you had the chance to sacrifice yourself to save B, or Dick, or any of your friends—you wouldn’t even hesitate to think about yourself before jumping in front of the bullet.”</p><p>Tim stares for a minute, and then he’s moving. Jason barely has a chance to move back before Tim’s catapulting himself over the sofa toward the window. He closes his eyes as he listens to Tim open the latch, start to move – and he listens as the kid goes still, stands at the sill and shudders through the deep, quiet breaths of a kid on his last legs. He only even gets up once he hears Tim’s graceless collapse to the ground. He hates how much he cares. He hates how much he pities the pale, ashen bird shaking on his floor.</p><p>“C’mon, kid,” he says, lifts him up without breaking a sweat. Tim feels hollow. Jason tries not to let that bother him too much.</p><p>Tim doesn’t let go when Jason tries to set him down on the sofa again, latches on with sharp fingers that jab deep into Jason’s skin. “Don’t,” he says. He sounds small. He sounds sad. He tugs Jason onto the sofa next to him, and then he swings his legs over Jason’s and settles into his lap. Jason’s hands come up to rest on his hips instead of shoving the underage motherfucking teenager away from him. <em>He’s sixteen,</em> he thinks, <em>he’s the same age I was when I died</em>. Two years just doesn’t seem as long as it should, not in their line of work, the child soldiers that grow up too fast and too hard. There isn’t a criminal in this city that wouldn’t love to get a hold of Batman’s partner and teach him what happens when their city gets interfered with, it doesn’t <em>matter</em> how old he is</p><p>When Tim kisses him, Jason doesn’t stop him. When Tim arches his back, Jason bites angry marks into the tendons of his neck, listens to Tim’s tiny gasp.</p><p>He kisses him, and kisses him, and he’s got his hand in Tim’s shirt and Tim’s fingers are fumbling with the button of Jason’s jeans, and suddenly everything comes careening back into reality.</p><p>“No,” Jason snarls, moving fast to stop Tim’s hand before he can go any further. “No.”</p><p>“Why not?” Tim says, and tries not to sound like he’s begging. But he’s tired, he’s so tired of everything, and his skin is sparking where Jason touches him, offering a chance that maybe he doesn’t have to keep feeling like this.</p><p>“You’re a fucking kid,” Jason says, withdrawing his hands despite Tim’s wordless protests. “You’re sad and lonely and sixteen-fucking-years old.”</p><p>“You’re sad and lonely, and you’re only eighteen,” Tim points out.</p><p>Jason is struck with the urge to smack him, and doesn’t, because he’d been shoving his tongue down his throat only seconds earlier and it just feels wrong. “I told you,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m not gonna be your fucking weapon of choice.”</p><p>Tim flinches a little, slides out of Jason’s lap and stands up like he’s getting ready to leave.</p><p>Jason’s hand reaches out to catch Tim’s wrist, and he sighs heavily when the kid turns those big, confused eyes on him. “Fuck, man. Just—stay here, take some painkillers, and sleep that stab wound off. Okay?”</p><p>Tim nods slowly. When Jason returns from the back room with a blanket and a pillow, the kid and his gear are already gone, and he isn’t even surprised.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Jason drags himself out of unconsciousness in a rush, hands snaking to the guns in his thigh holsters from sheer habit and nerves. It’s quiet, far too quiet considering he was in the middle of a firefight when he went down, and he’s not entirely sure what’s happened.</p><p>And then he sees Robin.</p><p>The sixteen year old is leaning heavily against the opposite wall, surrounded by unconscious, beaten-to-a-pulp goons who look like they’re all a hair’s breadth away from death. He’s breathing too hard, his skin deathly pale where it isn’t covered in blood, shaking like he’s about to come apart.</p><p>Jason heaves himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear away the stars in his vision, and makes his way over, skirting around unconscious thugs and pools of blood, until he’s standing in front of the kid. He reaches out tentatively, noting the way Tim seems to shrink in on himself, and feels around for the button on the side of his mask to retract the lenses. A second later, the blank whiteness disappears to reveal the too-wide gaze of Tim Drake, whose pupils are blown with something more than terror, and Jason inwardly curses the Scarecrow to the deepest depths of hell, because if he wasn’t sure before, he’s damn sure now that Tim’s been hit with a dose of fear toxin, and he’s not responding well.</p><p>Suddenly, Jason’s gaze locks onto the blood—or, rather, Tim’s blood. Because Robin’s been shot.</p><p>There’s a hole in the shoulder of his uniform, a small tear in the fabric that’s wet with blood, shiny against the dull red of his costume. It seems as though Tim had tried through the haze of fear to stop the bleeding, as his cape is wrapped awkwardly around his upper arm, not quite high enough to do any good.</p><p>“Damn,” Jason mutters, and Tim jerks in response to his voice, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth when his body hits the wall.</p><p>Jason’s moving without thinking, pulling out the small phone in his belt and fiddling with the settings that control the technology in his helmet, looking for the Bat Network. It takes him longer than he’d care to admit to worm his way through Bruce’s upgraded firewalls and into the comm system that all of the Bats share. He normally just eavesdrops on their conversations, takes note of where Batman’s going to be and makes damn sure he’s on the opposite side of the city, or listens to Robin’s careful check-ins and stalks him a bit longer than is probably healthy. So sue him. Jason’s allowed to be traumatized.</p><p>He finally hears the buzz of the network in the mic of his helmet, and winces at the crackling that indicates a shoddy connection. “This is Red Hood,” he says into the comm, waiting with bated breath for the sound of the connection dropping or someone’s voice, whichever comes first.  </p><p>There’s a brief silence, and Jason can hear labored breathing on Batman’s end that indicates he’s in a fight. “I do not have time for you right now, Hood,” Batman growls, and then the connection is abruptly cut off, and Jason curses loud enough that Tim’s head snaps up and stares, and Jason has to force his anger down to avoid terrifying the kid in front of him even further.</p><p>“Fuck,” he exhales harshly, moving forward carefully to drop into a crouch in front of Tim, who curls back against the wall like it’s going to protect him. “Robin,” Jason says, his voice surprisingly tender. “I’m not going to hurt you, Robin. Come on, I’ll get you out of here.”</p><p>Tim’s voice is cracked and whispery, barely audible, but there’s no mistaking his words when his says emphatically, “<em>Jay</em>.” His gaze slides past Jason’s, and he cocks his head a little, eyes darting around like he’s not really looking at Jason so much as something that Jason can’t see, but then he’s grabbing hold of Jason’s outstretched hand, and Jason’s hauling the kid to his feet.</p><p>And, <em>fuck</em>, but the kid doesn’t weigh a thing, floats into existence like some kind of ghost instead of a person, instead of the boy who flies around the night and pummels criminals into submission. He definitely doesn’t seem strong enough to have taken down all of the men around him, despite the obvious proof, the blood pooling across the floor and sticking to the treads of Jason’s boots.</p><p>He’ll be surprised if all of these unconscious men make it out alive, and he wonders absently how Tim would react if he woke up and realized he was a killer. Jason decides that he doesn’t particularly like that thought, and makes a quick call to the GCPD to collect the men at their location before they bleed out and turn Robin from a vigilante into a bona fide murderer.</p><p>“Hold tight, kid,” Jason grunts, and then he’s shooting a grapnel into the sky, the shaking teenager at his side lets out a tiny noise, and they’re flying.</p><p>The thing about Scarecrow’s fear gas is that it doesn’t affect everyone the same way; there’s always hallucinations, always a terror that claws it’s way into your head and clogs your veins, but Scarecrow is, unfortunately, damn smart, and his toxin targets its victims individually.</p><p>Jason hasn’t been hit since he was Robin, but he remembers the effects well; his hallucinations are like nightmares, things that could happen but haven’t, real people, people he’d loved once, who stab him and choke him and destroy him while he cowers, unable to move away or stop them. He knows that Batman’s are more like cartoons, a transformation of everyday life into something pixelated and either just out of focus or far too sharp, ubiquitous threats that balloon into twice their size and defy the laws of physics.</p><p>He doesn’t know for sure what Tim’s seeing, but he’s damn sure that it isn’t good. The problem is that Jason doesn’t have an antidote; he’s inoculated against the main strands of Scarecrow’s traditional toxin, and he doesn’t exactly have the funds or the space to build his own lab and manufacture spares, especially now that he’s cut back on his criminal activity. But he has to do something, because Tim is still plastered to his side as he swings them across the rooftops of the Narrows, and his noises have gotten progressively more unnerving.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jason mutters under his breath, his breathing heavy with exertion. Tim isn’t <em>quite</em> dead weight, but he’s getting close to it, the blood loss and toxin working together to bring his defenses down. It won’t be long before the boy can’t hold on anymore, and then Jason’s fucked, because he can’t carry a fully-costumed, injured Robin all the way across Gotham without getting caught by <em>something</em> bad.</p><p>“Alright, listen, kid,” he grunts, his mind racing as he scans the streets below, trying to remember where his closest hidey-hole is, his very own Robin nests. “I’m gonna take you to the Cave, ok? Can you hear me? Alfred will have something, since apparently B is too fucking busy to give a shit.”</p><p>Tim sways on his feet, eyes flicking around non-stop but hands still clenched tight in the fabric of Jason’s suit. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t seem to respond at all, except press himself closer against Jason, like he can’t feel the pain of the wound in his shoulder, can’t feel the discomfort of blood-soaked Kevlar.</p><p>“Come on,” Jason mutters, his voice inscrutable, even if Tim doesn’t have enough sense of mind to listen. “Let’s go, little bird.” He pulls Tim’s arms tighter, which Tim doesn’t seem to have any sort of problem with, huddling against Jason without hesitation, and then he follows the internal map in his mind five blocks up and two over, where he’s got a bike locked in a storage unit.</p><p>He settles Tim onto the bike in front of him, and breaks every driving law from the Bowery to the outskirts of Gotham to get to Wayne Manor. Halfway there, Tim nearly falls off of the bike, and Jason swerves like a madman on the highway to get him situated, feeling a twinge of guilt when he has to haul Tim back up using his injured shoulder.</p><p>No visible alarms go off as Jason speeds through the tunnel, but Alfred is waiting in the Cave when he arrives, obviously ready for him, though not expecting him to haul Tim, who’s gone back to making small noises, off of the bike with him.</p><p>“Fear gas,” Jason grunts, tugging Tim insistently behind him toward the medical bay, Alfred hot on his heels. “And he’s been shot.”</p><p>“How long?” the butler demands, and Jason feels a wave of affection he hasn’t felt in awhile, because at the end of the day Alfred doesn’t care about murder or guns or loyalty, he just cares about the people he’s sworn to protect. Jason appreciates that, even if he doesn’t say it often enough. Alfred’s a good person, better than any of them deserve.</p><p>Jason settles Tim onto a gurney, and the boy sways, blinking rapidly but not appearing to register anything. “Total time elapsed? Not sure. It’s been an hour since I found him, but he got hit before that,” Jason says, moving to step back. “I was unconscious at the time.”</p><p>Tim’s arm lashes out like a whip, latching onto Jason’s wrist and forcing him to stop. “Stay,” he says, and his voice is <em>wrecked</em>, but it’s the first word he’s said since he’d whispered Jason’s name, so he does what the kid says, and leans against the gurney beside him, letting Tim clutch at his forearm and use him as a safety blanket or a sense of security or whatever the fuck it is Tim sees him as.</p><p>Alfred gives them an indecipherable look, but doesn’t linger, instead moving to the supply cabinet and busying himself to ready the antidote.</p><p>“You’re a goddamn mess, aren’t you?” Jason mutters under his breath, tapping the fingers of his free hand obsessively against the metal under him. He hates being here, hates the Cave and everything it represents, hates that he misses this place more than he wants to.</p><p>“Language,” Alfred chides softly, and then he’s brushing Tim’s sweat-soaked hair away from his neck and is injecting something into Tim’s skin that forces a choked sound from him, causing him to relax onto the gurney like all of his bones have suddenly turned to jelly. “There we go, Master Tim,” he says, and there’s nothing but worry and fondness in his voice.</p><p>Tim slides down onto his back, hands releasing Jason’s arm from his iron grasp, and exhales heavily, the sound more like a sob than anything else.</p><p>Alfred moves on autopilot, stringing up an IV and sliding the needle carefully into the vein in Tim’s wrist, and Tim’s eyes flutter as he sinks into the gurney, body unwinding from where it had been strung so tight. He’s unconscious in seconds, still for the first time in hours.</p><p>“Help me lift him up,” Alfred orders, and Jason rolls Tim onto his side so Alfred can inspect the gunshot wound in his shoulder. “Clean shot,” the older man says, and there’s something like relief in his voice. “Went straight through his back. All he needs are stitches.”</p><p>Jason steps away from the gurney, tugs his helmet off and scrubs at his face. He feels drained, and can’t bring himself to do anything more than watch as Alfred prepares to clean Tim up, his hands still as he begins to cut away the fabric surrounding Tim’s wound.</p><p>Jason thinks about the last time he saw Tim shirtless, all bruised up and bloody and looking at Jason like he was some kind of god. He thinks about the fact that Alfred probably had to do this same thing when Jason first cut him up, when Jason had shoved a knife into Tim’s jugular and snarled murder into his ear. He isn’t the type of man who lingers on the past—none of them are, it hurts too much to think about the could-haves, should-haves, would-haves—but he can’t help the stab of guilt in his stomach for all of the things he’s done to Tim.</p><p>He must make some kind of noise, because Alfred’s gaze flicks to his face, gives him a piercing look that makes Jason feel like he’s fourteen again, distrustful of everything nice that Bruce tried to give him. Then he looks away, focused once more on the task before him as he begins the first stitch.</p><p>He doesn’t speak again until Alfred’s done, until he’s feeding a bag of blood into the IV and pushing the tray of bloody medical supplies aside, pulling surgical gloves off with ease.</p><p>“That was the worst fucking thing I’ve seen in awhile,” Jason says flatly, and Alfred doesn’t even comment on his profanity. That’s how Jason knows that he’s right, that that reaction hadn’t been <em>normal</em>, that Tim had suffered something far worse than the ordinary. “He—<em>god</em>, Alf, I thought he was going to shake apart on me. That was just…”</p><p>Jason can’t find the words to describe Tim’s reaction to the fear gas, can’t find the words to describe the almost irrational, unforeseen concern that Jason had felt for Robin, for his replacement, for the boy he himself had tried to kill over and over again in the past. For the first time in a long while, Jason feels <em>real</em>, feels visceral and raw, like an open wound, thinks that maybe there’s someone in the world that he cares about, after all. He just can’t believe it’s <em>Drake</em>, of all people.</p><p>“He doesn’t react well to most drugs,” Alfred is explaining, voice monotone as he hooks another bag of fluids onto the IV pole. “Painkillers and poisons alike. It’s no surprise that the fear gas is any different. I imagine that it will take him days before he’ll feel himself again after this.” There’s a pause, and then Alfred is eyeing him again, and he says warily, “I had not realized that you knew him so well.”</p><p>It’s a loaded question, one that makes Jason’s hackles rise. “Gotham’s a small city for our kind,” he replies coldly. “I run into everyone.”</p><p>“Except for Master Bruce,” Alfred points out.</p><p>Jason bites his lip to keep from snapping at the man. “There are limits to my self-control.”</p><p>“And how fares your self-control when it comes to Tim?”</p><p>Jason looks down at the unconscious sixteen-year old in front of him, tries not to think about the way the boy looks at his mercy, at the end of his knife, pressed up against a brick wall, in his lap on a sofa, shaking on his apartment floor. He tries not to think about the way Tim accepts everything that’s thrown his way, how he doesn’t stop pushing Jason when every other reasonable person would, doesn’t back down even as he flinches in fear. Quite suddenly, Jason realizes that he doesn’t really know what his life would look like without Tim in it, that he’s come to rely on Robin’s presence, but that it’s about more than that, more than his replacement, more than Batman’s partner—it’s about <em>Tim</em>.</p><p>Jason doesn’t answer the question, instead says quietly, “Tim’s a good person. Better than me, better than <em>him</em>.”</p><p>Alfred hums quietly in response.</p><p>Jason takes one last look at the young man on the bed, and slides his helmet back on. “Oh, and Alfred?” His voice twists with the helmet, the anger inside him simmering red-hot. “Tell him something for me, will you?”</p><p>Alfred looks as though he would rather do anything else, but nods.</p><p>“Tell him that I’d rather swallow a bowl full of glass than ask him for backup, so if he sees me on his caller ID again, it’s a goddamn emergency, and he needs to take my fucking call. Yeah?”</p><p>“Again with the profanity, Master Jason,” Alfred sighs.</p><p>It’s the first time he’s heard Alfred say his name in a long time, and it makes his blood race, his pulse accelerate, makes him need to be anywhere but here right now.</p><p>“Yeah, Alfred?” he presses.</p><p>Alfred watches the young man that used to be his charge walk away without an answer, kick the stop on his bike and roar out of the highway, and then back at Robin on the gurney. “Oh, Master Bruce,” he says, “what a mess we have made of this, indeed.”</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>Tim wakes up in his room in Wayne Manor, his chest and shoulder swathed in bandages, and sees Jason Todd sitting on the top of his desk like a chair, idly reading one of Tim’s books. He doesn’t move for several minutes, taking account of the situation at hand. He’s in his bed, but he has no idea how he got here. The last thing he remembers is dropping into the warehouse to come to Red Hood’s aid, and then… nothing. He’s injured, that’s for sure, feels like someone’s hit him with a sledgehammer. There’s a pounding in his head that gets worse when he tries to think back, a throbbing in his shoulder, and his entire body aches.</p><p>“Jason,” he tries to say, but his voice is raspy and cracked, and the name sounds more like a croak than an actual word. He gets the man’s attention anyway, shrinks a little under his unwavering gaze, face free of his helmet and domino mask. He thinks back to the last time he saw Jason’s face, in his apartment in Crime Alley while Tim, fresh from a patch-up, arched against Jason and tried to suck bruises into his throat. He almost blushes.   </p><p>“Hey, little bird,” Jason breaks the silence.</p><p>Tim clears his throat and tries again, trying to project confidence into his voice, despite the panic coiling in his body. “You should get out of here before Bruce comes in,” he says.</p><p>Jason shuts the book, stares at Tim. “I’m the one who just saved your life. I think I get a free pass.”</p><p>“You saved <em>my</em> life?” Tim repeats, brow furrowing, because that doesn’t sound right. The last thing he remembers is him trying to save Jason, not the other way around. Jason cocks his head at him in questioning. “I can’t remember,” Tim admits in a small voice, fisting his hands together on top of the sheets, like he can pummel his memory into submission. </p><p>Jason’s eyes narrow. “Where are the blanks?” he asks, and his voice is flat, emotionless, though Tim can’t tell if it’s because he’s hiding his emotions or if he truly doesn’t care.</p><p>“I ran across you in a fight,” Tim says slowly. “You went down. I jumped in, got you safe, before I went back into the fight, and… then I woke up here.”</p><p>Jason clicks his tongue. “They were Scarecrow’s men. You got hit by fear toxin. Took down twenty guys, despite that. When I came to, you were the only one still conscious, but tweaked out of your mind. I brought you here. Alfred patched you up.”</p><p>Tim nods deliberately. That makes sense. And Jason has no real reason to lie to him. He feels clearer now, with the gaps filled in and his eyes adjusting to the light. He feels like a real person again, capable of getting through this situation. “So I saved your life, and then you saved mine,” he concludes.</p><p>“In which case we’re even, and B has no reason to lose his shit on me when he comes to check on you and realizes I’m still here,” Jason shrugs, their conversation coming full circle back to Bruce.</p><p>Tim looks nervous. “I never actually told him about… this thing,” he admits. “I sort of just assumed he knew and trusted me to handle it.”</p><p>Jason snorts. “Well, I’ve somehow changed from trying to kill you to actively saving your life, so I’d say you <em>handled</em> me pretty well.”</p><p>There’s an awkward silence. He looks down at the IV drip in his arm, and makes a move to sit up. The searing pain in his shoulder forces an involuntary whimper from his bloodless lips, and he collapses back against the pillows. “I—wanna give me my medical report?” he asks breathlessly.</p><p>There’s a bolt of anger in Jason’s eyes, and Tim wonders what thought caused it. “Like I said, you took down twenty guys even after you got dosed. I’m guessing the toxin made you a bit more eager to eliminate the threats than you’d normally be. You almost killed a few of them. But one of them shot you. Bullet went clean straight through your shoulder, no major organs or arteries. On top of that, you’ve got a sprained wrist, and you’re covered in bruises, obviously, particularly around the chest. Alfred thought maybe a concussion, but you seem fine to me in the head trauma department.” He pauses, and there’s that flash of anger across his face again. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know,” Jason says conversationally.</p><p>Tim takes it in stride. “I’m the idiot? Who’s the one who was in that warehouse facing twenty guys in the first place? Do you know what they’d have done to you if I hadn’t been there to stop them?”</p><p>“They wouldn’t have killed me,” Jason dismisses. “Roughed me up, sure, but Scarecrow and I have business.”</p><p>That is the wrong thing to say. “Are you kidding me? Who’s the fucking idiot now?” Tim’s anger is seething, cuts through the drugs and the pain with ease.</p><p>“That’s not the point, Tim,” Jason snaps.</p><p>“Oh, yeah? Wanna tell me what is?”</p><p>Jason stands abruptly, fists balled in the pockets of his leather jacket. “The <em>point</em> is, you were about to let yourself get killed for nothing! For – for fucking <em>me</em>? Do you know how stupid that is? How absolutely ridiculous that would have been? Just – Christ, little bird, why the fuck would you do that, huh?”</p><p>He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know why he’s here, and that makes him angry, his own inability to process his feelings and the actions they’re leading him to. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, and grabs for the helmet on the bedside.</p><p>“Jason, I—stay. Please.” The words are out of Tim’s mouth before he can stop them. Later he’ll blame the painkillers making his brain foggy and tongue heavy, but for now he just knows that he doesn’t want Jason to leave.</p><p>Jason’s expression is inscrutable, especially in the state that Tim’s in right now. “You don’t want me here. I’m a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“I don’t want to be alone,” Tim says, and it’s such an honest statement that Jason actually stops mid-step, because he knows Tim, and Tim doesn’t do the <em>truth</em>, but Jason knows without a doubt that that’s what those words had been.</p><p>“So I’m just a fill-in for until Dick gets here? A warm body?” He knows he’s being deliberately obtuse and that it’s almost a cruel thing to do, with Tim laid up like this. But he wants to hear Tim say it, out loud, wants it on camera for the next time Bruce comes swinging at Jason for corrupting his newest Robin, wants proof.</p><p>“This isn’t about Dick,” Tim says quietly. “If I wanted him here, or Bruce, I would just call for them. I want <em>you</em>to stay.” He reaches for the blankets pooled at his waist and tugs so that he’s not hogging them anymore, scooting closer to the edge where his IV pole stands, clearing a space beside him. “Please.”</p><p><em>You make me feel safe,</em> he thinks, like Jason can read his thoughts. <em>You make me feel accepted. You make me feel like there’s something else beyond being Robin. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like I have to pretend, and I don’t want it to end, Jason</em>.</p><p>Jason’s mouth is dry. <em>Well, he’d wanted to hear it</em>. “You’re going to be the death of me, little bird,” he mutters, but he’s moving away from the window now and back toward Tim, stripping out of his leather jacket as he does so. “You’re such a fucking mess,” he continues, but his words are fond, if not inherently nice. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”</p><p><em>I don’t know when you stopped being an enemy and started being something more than a friend. I don’t know why I care so much. But I feel so guilty seeing you lying in that bed, because it’s my fault, Tim, it’s all my fault and you should hate me for it and I’m so fucking glad that you don’t</em>.</p><p>“It’s because I’m pretty,” Tim replies blandly, and he grins when the corners of Jason’s lips perk up.</p><p>The other man doesn’t take off his armor, because he’s way too paranoid to let his guard down in Bruce’s house, but he removes his gauntlets and lays his guns down on the side table, looking down at Tim with an immeasurable look before settling into the open space next to him.</p><p>The pain is starting to hit Tim again, and he almost starts panting for breath as Jason jostles him while he squirms into a comfortable position. It’s worth it, though, when the man stops moving, his bulk crammed into the admittedly small space that Tim left for him, his body pressed against Tim’s good side, one hand behind his head and the other resting lightly on the armor over his abdomen. He’s warm against Tim’s bare skin, and Tim feels no shame when he nestles in closer, letting his head fall against Jason’s shoulder.</p><p>They’re silent, breathing soft and easy in tandem with each other, and Jason realizes that he can’t think of a single person he’s ever felt this for. His mother, maybe, when he was younger. Dick, when he was new to the Wayne household and desperate for any scrap of love at all. But even those emotions are nothing in comparison to the feelings blossoming in his chest now.</p><p>The surge of protectiveness, the overwhelming guilt for past sins, the nonsensical attachment to and affection for the tiny, dangerous, weapon of a boy tucked into his side, he’s never felt these before, not for anyone. And it scares him to death, because he knows how easily it is to fuck something like this up, but for the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try anyway.</p><p>He can hear Tim’s breathing even out beside him, can feel the younger man’s hand loosen where it’s curled into a fist on Jason’s chest, and Jason peeks a glance down. Tim looks younger when he’s asleep, when he can’t keep his guard up. He looks like any other sixteen-year old boy, one who should be worrying about homework and college, and not recovering from a bullet in the shoulder.</p><p>“This entire thing is stupid,” he tells Tim’s sleeping form, but that doesn’t stop him from snaking an arm around the boy’s waist, tugging himself closer, taking care not to damage the wires and cords sticking out of his body. “It’s a bad idea, even by my standards. Without a doubt, it’s one of the worst decisions <em>you’ve</em> ever made.”</p><p>He’s quiet for a moment, and then he sighs, and leans his head back into the pillows, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “You’re okay now, Tim,” he says, and the boy’s name sounds strange on his tongue. He says it a few more times, like he’s trying it on at the store.</p><p>Tim moves in his sleep, like he can hear Jason, and Jason shushes him without thinking, leaning over delicately and hitting the button on the IV pole for more painkillers. A moment later, Tim stills once more.</p><p>Jason stares at him for a long time before closing his own eyes. “We’re in this together now, little bird,” he whispers. “And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again.”</p>
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